


There's something wretched about this

by boom_slap



Series: There's something wretched about this [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Backstory, Emotional Baggage, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Violence, Misogyny, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, So Wrong It's Right, Substance Abuse, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23795362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: When they met each other, they clicked like a cocked gun.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: There's something wretched about this [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754590
Comments: 296
Kudos: 556





	1. Chapter 1

  
_Christmas Eve, 1996, Villeverde Cemetary, Madrid._

Two lone, slim figures were standing above a fresh grave, one dressed in a long, black coat, the other one in an old denim jacket, shivering slightly because the evening was cold, and because there were still tears running down his cheeks.

"Was there anything in the will?" 

"Savings. She left me some savings."

"Good. If you need anything, come to me."

"Will do. Thanks."

The one with the denim jacket still had a face of a young boy, thin and pale, his brown eyes glistening either with tears, fever or determination. 

The other one, slightly older, put his collar up against the wind which was tearing at his dark locks. 

"Are you really disappearing?" he asked, rubbing his hands together. 

"Yes."

"Will you help me if I get in trouble, though?" 

"Are you planning on getting in trouble?" the younger boy took off his glasses and put them in his pocket, sniffling slightly. 

"Maybe," his companion answered with a half-smile. "Don't you think that Gabriela deserves a nice engagement ring? I'm thinking the family one. I know where my father keeps it."

"Engagement?" he demanded, tears replaced by a deep frown.   
His expression, which seemed to be screaming: ' _why on earth would you do that?_ ', was met with a light chuckle as the other man embraced him and turned around to head towards the cemetary gate. 

"Stop being such a bore!"

They took only a few steps before the gentleman in the black coat stopped in his tracks and looked up, blinking. Then, a wide smile appeared on his face.

"Look, Sergio. It's snowing."

  
_Christmas Eve, 1996, Villa 31, Buenos Aires._

When the night fell on the other side of the ocean, it was dark, humid and unbearably hot. 

In the neighborhood, the sounds of car alarms, rolling trains and people screaming at each other in the slums turned into an awful cacophony. 

One yell was particularily loud and thunderous. 

"Come back here, _pequeño maricón_!" a man screamed from the doorway as a scrawny looking teenager disappeared in the usual crowd of poor, miserable people. 

He was running as fast as he could, panting, holding onto a duffel bag, until he reached the train station, sprinted downstairs and jumped into a subway car. 

He found a place to sit down and stared at his reflection in the window. A smile crept up onto his face, a smile of joy coloured with a little bit of madness. 

When he decided that he was so far away from home that he felt safe, he jumped out of the car and once again disappeared somewhere in the city. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here goes omg im nervous

_January 2002, Buenos Aires._

Andrés was not happy.

He was never one to admit when he was wrong, and Sergio has told him it was a stupid idea.

 _It's a stupid idea_ , he's said as he handed Andrés the false passport.

 _I can't stand the weather_ , he's told him then, wrapping his coat more tightly around himself. _My broken heart will never heal in the depressing slumber of an european winter._

He drank way too much on the plane but he didn't manage to get a single minute of sleep on board, he arrived at the hotel in the early morning and decided to take a nap. He was woken up at 5 in the afternoon by the insufferable heat that made all of his clothes cling disgustingly to his sweaty body. When he made a complaint about the AC not working, the receptionist only shrugged. Power shortage, she said. Due to the heat wave.

Andrés took a cold shower then, dressed in linen pants and his lightest white shirt and left the hotel.

The sky seemed about to crash onto the streets, heavy with dark, replete clouds. A new layer of sweat appeared instantly on his skin and he found it exhausting to breathe as he walked down the alleys, searching for a good place to hide away.

Finally, he noticed a bar, located in a souterrain, elegant enough for Andrés' impeccable taste, but small and old enough to be considered local.

The bartender smiled at him as he walked in; inside, there was only one man, sleeping by the table in a corner.

Andrés sat on a high stool by the bar and ordered Campari with tonic, pleasantly surprised to discover ice in his glass when it was served to him. The patron explained that people could survive without AC, but that they had an electric power generating set in the back, because a drink with no ice would be an inforgivable crime.

The man seemed nice enough for Andrés to indulge in a conversation with him. He was named Carlos, he owned the bar for more than ten years now. Carlos was in his fifties, his skin a tanned mix of freckles and laugh lines and he told Andrés all about the best restaurants and cafés in the city.

As it was getting dark outside and the air chilled a little bit, people began filling the small space, so Andrés retreated to a corner with his sketchbook and another drink. He began drawing different people, observing them with a curious eye: a pretty but tough-looking woman drinking beer by the bar, her long black hair pulled up into a high ponytail, exposing the elegant curve of her neck; a group of men playing cards over a table filled with bottles and ashtrays; a trumpet player, sitting on a small stage behind a curtain of smoke from many cigarettes, playing some plaintive tango.

Before he realized, Andrés got lost in the music. He stopped drawing and stared at the wall, his thoughts going to Gabriela, to her delicate hands, to her long, golden curls and angelic smile. And then to her tears as she told him she could not live like that, always on the edge, playing with fire. She was like fire to him too, but a different kind; like Hestia, the ancient goddess of the hearth, warm and welcoming-

A bottle smashing against the floor and raised voices made him snap out of his melancholy and he looked up to see two card players being on their feet, one, a big man in his fourties apparently ready to murder the other one, a small thing with a mop of unruly brown hair.

"Stop cheating!" the big brute roared, his face red and nostrils flaring.

"I'm not cheating," came a calm reply.

The next thing he knew, he was witnessing a bar brawl, or so he thought when the man - like a damn Minotaur - threw himself at the stripling before him. But the young man was quick on his feet; he took a step to the side and the other guy scored a heavy landing against the shelves filled with wine bottles, breaking some of them in the process. He leaned against the wall, touching a hand to his bleeding forehead.

"For fuck's sake, Martín!" Carlos yelled at the scrawny-looking man, stepping out from behind the bar. "Would you mind not doing that? You'll scare people away!"

"What do you mean? I haven't done anything!" he replied, his accent thick, arms spread out and eyes comically large. 

Andrés couldn't help but snicker at that. 

The man glanced at him over his shoulder before gathering his cards and his money from the table as the other players kept their fallen collegue from indulging in more violence. 

Andrés bowed his head again to continue drawing, but then, the cards were placed before him. He looked up to see the guy, Martín, standing by his table, hands on his hips and chin tilted upwards. He was thin, a hawaiian shirt hanging off of him, revealing sharp collarbones. 

"You play poker?" he demanded.

Andrés shrugged. 

"I know the rules. Why, _niño_?"

He raised his brow at the diminutive before pulling a chair from under the table and sitting down, leaning forward on his elbows. 

"I want to play, obviously. Or do you have nothing to bet?" 

"I don't have a lot of cash on me," Andrés admitted as he glanced off to the side to check if anyone was listening, but people were ignoring them. He reached into the pocket of his pants and placed his hand on the table, opening his palm to reveal a small, one-carat diamond. 

"How about twelve thousand pesos?" 

Martín's eyes sparkled as Andrés closed his fist. 

"I only have a hundred," he whispered. 

"Well, I'm in. Are you?" 

A wide, mischevious smile appeared on the young Argentinian's face and he nodded eagerly. 

  
They have been playing for three hours already and half of the customers gathered around them to watch. Even Carlos left his post behind the counter. 

Andrés was curious, to say the least. Even though he had once been described as an empathy-lacking psychopath by some nerd in glasses (his brother), he was good at reading people, which was why he was great at poker. And Martín's face was very expressive - he kept frowning, then smiling, then biting his lips or sticking out the end of his tongue, thoughtful. Andrés could as well be watching the reflections of the cards in his eyes as if they were a mirror. 

The problem was, somehow, Martín always knew when to play safe and when to risk it all. Every single time Andrés had a nice hand, Martín passed. Each time he decided to reveal his cards, they would be better than Andrés'. 

That's how, after three hours and a half, Martín had won. Carlos only shook his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered, going back to his customers. As everyone else dispersed, Andrés leaned back in his chair, equally annoyed and captivated by Martín, who stared back at him with something between curiosity and wariness. 

"Do you want your prize?" 

"I'm not going to carry it in my pocket like it's nothing," he scoffed and then smirked wickedly. "You have to walk me to my place, _señor_."

Andrés snickered. Insufferable, cheeky brat, he thought. And a shameless flirt to top it all off. 

"Fine," he said and got to his feet. 

  
As they walked, Andrés took a deep breath, throwing his head back. The night air was more forgiving to his poor body, not used to such humidity and chilled by windy, disgusting spanish winter.

"Aren't you afraid that I'm going to jump you and rob you since you've showed me a fucking diamond in there?" Martín whispered. It only made Andrés laugh. 

"Try me," he shrugged. 

It took Martín half a second to throw himself at him, but Andrés only rolled his eyes. He grabbed his wrist and twisted it, making the kid hiss in pain as he forced him to lower his arm. They stood like that, chest to chest, and Andrés smiled at their height difference. 

"Still feeling cheeky?" he asked, his voice a low murmur. 

Martín cocked his head, his eyes yet again revealing everything: he was impressed, curious, excited.

"Have you ever danced tango?" he asked, making Andrés laugh one more time as he let go of his wrist. 

"Once or twice."

"I could teach you," he offered, not even trying to hide how eager he was. "And then, I can take you to a place where you could have some real fun with it."

Andrés wondered how old the other man was. Twenty? Maybe twenty-one. But he was unlike anyone he'd ever met. Besides, he could be a nice distraction - during their game, he hasn't thought about Gabriela once. 

"Fine. Tomorrow?" 

Martín shook his head and nodded towards the sky, starless, with dense clouds that seemed to be swallowing the city's lights instead of reflecting them. 

"It's going to rain tomorrow. A storm is long overdue," he said and smiled, raising his finger as a low rumble resonated somehere. "The air is almost cracking. You know, a few years ago, a lightning bolt killed a man in the middle of la Avenida de Mayo. It was rather spectacular; he was instantly fried. A lightning can have the voltage up to a hundred million."

Andrés stared at him. 

"I don't know about voltage, but some of our ancestors believed it to be a great honor to be stuck by a lightning. Ever wonder what it feels like?" 

Martín stared back. 

"No."

Andrés looked around the small flat as he handed the diamond to Martín. The place was clean, but there were empty bottles arranged along the windowsill and books scattered literally everywhere, even in the kitchen. There was even a blackboard with some complicated equations scribbled all over it. 

"Are you a student?" Andrés asked, picking up what looked to be a textbook. 

"Last year of _Ingeniería civil_ at UBA," Martín explained, hiding the diamond in a small box that he pushed under his bed.

"How old are you then?" 

"Twenty-four."

Andrés nodded and stared at the blackboard, trying and failing to make sense of the equations. Then, realisation hit him. He felt his mouth stretch into a delighted grin as he slowly turned to look at the other man. 

"Martín..." he began, fondness dripping from his tone like honey. "How did you win?" 

Martín shrugged, the movement of his slim shoulders sharp against the material of his shirt. 

"I counted."


	3. Chapter 3

They stayed up until three in the morning, talking. At some point, the power went out again, but Martín just got up to get some candles, his guest waiting patiently in the dark.

He knew his flat by memory, so he moved around with ease. The first candle he brought to the small table next to which the stranger was seated. He sank to his knees to light it and when the match sparked and ignited, he saw the man's face illuminated from below, all sharp angles, a strong jaw and dark eyebrows, and these eyes, looking at him; almost black, reflecting the fire. 

Martín realized he was staring when the match burned his fingers, so he dropped it, dropped his gaze, too, and then lit another one and with it, he lit the candle. 

Soon, there were candles all around them and he sat back down on his bed, running a hand through his hair.

"After the storm, the power shortages will be less frequent, 'cause the heat's going to be more manageble," he explained, almost apologetic.

"What will you do with the diamond?" his companion asked suddenly, leaning back in his chair.

Martín shrugged.

"I know someone who can sell it for me. I'm going to have to give him his cut, but I have to keep my hands clean, and I need the money," he said, looking out of the window. "The economy is awful, so they're probably going to cut my scholarship. Your little stone will save my ass."

"Great to know that it will pay for your education. I'm going back to the hotel. It was nice meeting you, Martín."

He stared at the man as he was getting up and he was hit by a sudden wave of pure panic. He jumped to his feet and grabbed this stranger by the arm.

"What's your name?" he asked, feeling feverish.

The man turned his head to look at him.

"Andrés," he said and the way the way the vowels wrapped themselves around the consones immediately became Martín's new favourite music.

"Andrés," he repeated quietly. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to ask him to stay a little longer, or to give him an address, a phone number, a family name. There was no way he could ask that. So he stepped away, letting go, the strange panic still gripping his throat, unexplainable.

Andrés was walking out, but he stopped in the doorway, looked over his shoulder and flashed Martín a beautiful smile.

"I'll see you in the afternoon," he said, just like that. And then he was gone.

Martín couldn't fall asleep at first, but when he did, it was only for a few hours. When he woke up, he ate a bowl of cereal, took a quick shower and then, sat down with one of his books. It was difficult to focus, though. He was still thinking about Andrés - how handsome he was, how interesting. There was something about him that seemed to be pulling Martín in.

Andrés showed up late in the afternoon; when Martín opened the door, he grinned at him.

"Come on, dress in something fancier, I'm taking you out for dinner," he declared and Martin couldn't help but laugh at that.

"What are you doing?" he asked before narrowing his eyes. "Are you trying to be my _papi_?"

He winked and now it was Andrés' turn to chuckle.

"No, I just find you interesting. I want to know more. Hurry up, I already made a reservation."

Martín nodded and changed into his one and only pair of dress pants, a white shirt and a pair of used oxfords that once were black.

He could see Andrés scoff slightly at his clothes, but he didn't say anything as they left the flat.

Now, he felt astounishingly stupid. The restaurant was an expensive, beautiful place filled with pretentious, beautiful people and Martín looked like a peasant.

"Calm down," Andrés said quietly, trying for a reassuring tone. Martín was not reassured. Not when Andrés was looking like an italian mafia boss in his light-grey linen suit, with diamonds probably lying around his pockets. Not when there was too much cutlery on the table, not when the tablecloth was blindingly white and so easy to stain. In fact, Martín felt like a wild animal trapped in a corner.

That's when he felt Andrés' hands on his face. He looked up to see that he had stood up and moved to stand beside Martín, looking down at him with a frown. He stared back, lost and speechless.

"None of the people here are worth as much as you are," Andrés said in a low voice, but with such force that Martín's breath hitched. "None of them."

He could only nod, but Andrés smiled, apparently satisfied as he let go of his face and sat back down. When the waiter came, he asked him about the choice of wine, ordered a bottle and then an appetizer and a main dish. They ate octopus roasted with potatoes and herbs in silence and while they were waiting for more food to arrive, a lightning cracked through the sky and the lamps flickered. Andrés smiled, looking out the huge window they were seated by.

"You were right," he said as rain started pouring down onto the city.

Martín shrugged.

"Of course I was."

Andrés turned back to him and Martín marveled at the colour of his eyes, same as the clouds above Buenos Aires - pitch black and dangerous.

"Were you born here?"

"I was. I've lived here all my life, so I know the city very well. I've never really... traveled much," he admitted.

Andrés hummed, running his fingers along the wine glass.

"Family?" he asked and Martín tensed instantly.

"I left when I was eighteen," he hissed. "I don't want anything to do with them."

"Ohhh, we have a rebel on our hands. Daddy issues? Seems fitting."

Martín took a deep breath, angry, but Andrés was looking at him with polite interest so his rage deflated immediately.

"Daddy issues, mommy issues," he shrugged, pursing his lips. "All kinds of issues. What about you?"

"My mother is dead and my father kindly decided to disown me, which is very unfortunate for him," Andrés smiled. "But I have a half-brother. He's four years younger than me, incredibly annoying and I love him very much. And he's smart. Like you. Why do you like engeneering, Martín?"

Martín smiled at that. About science, he could talk for hours. And Andrés seemed genuinely interested. So he leaned forward, not caring about savoir-vivre and the elbows-off-the-table rule.

"Look, you know how Galileo said: _Mathematics is the language in which God has written the universe_? It's exactly that. You have math, which is so wonderfully precise. Every problem has a clear solution. Everything is based on logic. But no matter how beautiful, it's still just theory, right? With engeneering, you put it into practice. The numbers turn into constructions, into working machines, into something useful. There is a tangible effect of your work."

Andrés shook his head at that.

"That's funny, the reason why I love arts, poetry, music and literature is because it's never unequivocal. It's up to interpretation, and how you interpret it reflects who you are. It's different for every human. And it's made for one main purpose- to please. But I understand your point of view," he said.

"And I understand yours," Martín replied.

They grinned at each other at the exact same moment.

They've spent the better part of the evening talking about music then, the one thing they both loved equally, even if Andrés loved it for the sound and emotion behind it while Martín was enchanted by harmony and rythm.

The next morning, Andrés was in his doorway before Martín could even fully wake up.

"Show me where you grew up," he said and that woke him up alright. 

He was helpless against Andrés' intent gaze, though, and so an hour later they were on the outskirts of Villa 31. Martín pushed his hands into his pockets, head bowed, as Andrés took in the absolute mess of a slum before him, the buildings that threatened to fall apart, the stench in the air, the absolute misery painted on people's faces.

Martín felt a hand on his back and he looked up to see Andrés smile at him.

"The only thing you should be taking from this is strength and determination," he whispered. "The rest, you've already left behind."

Andrés told him that he wanted to stay in Buenos Aires for about two weeks.

Fourteen days have passed, then fifteen, then eighteen, then twenty-one, and Andrés was still roaming the city with Martín, drinking at bars, eating at restaurants, talking long into the nights, visiting parks and museums and art galleries.

Soon, they learned each other so well that when they weren't discussing something, they could communicate through a simple look or a small touch. Martín could basically hear Andrés' thoughts, but still, his emotions were a difficult, well-guarded thing. Slowly, he learned to recognize some: excitement, his eyes widening and lips parting in a small smile whenever Martín said something particularily interesting; happiness, his mouth melting into a soft grin as he picked up the phone to hear his brother's voice on the other side; anger, visible only in the clench of his jaw and the vicious twinkle in his eyes when someone drunkenly insulted him or Martín.

At some point, Andrés took him shopping, taking pleasure in dressing Martín in expensive, well-cut clothes.

"What is this, _Pretty Woman_?" Martín turned away from the mirror, adjusting the cuff of a silk shirt.

"You wish," Andrés said, getting up to his feet. Martín clicked his tongue at the comment; the other man knew well enough that Martín found him incredibly attractive and he never hestitated to tease him about it.

He placed his hands on Martín's shoulders and turned him back around, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

"You're Cindarella," he chuckled, right into his ear. "And I, apparently, am your Fairy fucking Godmother."

Even though Andrés was sometimes teasing Martín about his sexuality, he was incredibly comfortable about it. Martín had no idea if he was bisexual or simply so secure in his heterosexuality that he didn't feel threatened, but Andrés was very much at ease with touching. 

They were in his flat, Martín sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, studying because his final year was starting soon. Andrés was stretched out on the covers, listening to the music coming from a gramophone in the corner, his hand buried in Martín's hair. From time to time, he would pull at the strands lightly, only to massage the scalp with the tips of his fingers right afterwards. Martín didn't mind.

"You promised you would teach me how to dance," Andrés murmured at some point.

So he did. He showed him tango and marveled at how Andrés allowed him to be this close, to feel the warmth of his body and smell the cologne. He showed him rumba and salsa and mambo. He showed him samba and they laughed at each other's hips-swinging techniques until they cried.

The next evening, Martín took him to a dance club, located by the river. The dancing floor was on a terrace and people swayed under the stars. 

Martín drank tequila and watched Andrés dance with women; one in particular, a pretty little thing with brown curls and dark blue eyes. 

_El tango de Roxanne_ came on and Martín groaned, watching his friend and the girl move. He hated this song with burning passion and he tried not to listen to the lyrics. He failed spectacularily. Andrés dancing was probably the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and he felt his throat constrict painfully. 

He turned back to the bar, but when José Feliciano began singing the spanish part, Andrés appeared next to him and grabbed his wrist. He pulled him onto the dancefloor, gave him a smile and wrapped an arm around his back, tilting his chin upwards like Martín taught him. Everyone around them stared. Martín himself stared, his eyes wide as he let his friend bend him backwards to the slow part of the song, his heart pounding so hard it was leaving him deaf. When Ewan McGregor's voice wailed again, Andrés danced the rest of the tango with Martín. 

As the song finished, the man grinned at him and gestured to his side. 

"Martín, let me introduce you to Lucía."

Martín tore his gaze away from Andrés and stared into the smiling eyes of a woman who was about to bring him nothing but decay. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this song came into my house and kicked me in the throat excuse me i'm crying  
> https://youtu.be/LZQjCYmQudY
> 
> You'll know when to play it xx

_March 2002, Buenos Aires_

"Martín!" Andrés strode into the flat. He walked through the empty living room and unceremoniously opened the bedroom door to find his friend passed out on the bed with an open textbook over his face and a bottle of wine on the nightstand. He rolled his eyes and sat down, leaning in to lift the book and stare right into Martín's face.

" _Niño_!" he called and the other man startled, turned to the side and slammed his head against the wall.

"Aww, fuck!" Martín groaned, rolling around on the bed. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Andrés smiled fondly and he pulled Martín's hand away from his face to place a kiss on his reddened forehead, making him shut up and still in less than a second. He pulled back to watch the effect - wide eyes, blushed cheeks and lips parted in surprise. Martín was positively adorable, so responsive to every gest, so passive.

"We're going out," he explained patiently. "You don't have early morning classes tomorrow, the weather is wonderful and Lucía's friends are visting from Rosario." 

Martín eyed him suspiciously. 

"Do I have to dress nicely and behave, or do I get to party?" 

Andrés couldn't help but laugh at that, getting up. 

"Whatever you like. I'm going to go have dinner with milady, be ready at nine."

They started off with drinks at Carlos', Andrés charming Lucía's friends effortlessly, talking about european art and culture. His lovely girl was leaning against his shoulder, small hands wrapped around his arm as she chatted with Martín. They got along well enough, which was surprising since Andrés was forcing them to spend a lot of time together and at first, he was worried that he would have to put a leash on Martín in order to teach him how to talk to a lady. But Martín was soft-spoken with her, respectful, he sometimes even tried for funny; and Lucía, like the complete angel that she was, laughed at his jokes. 

In the next bar, Andrés focused more on Lucía and so Martín began baring his teeth. He was throwing around vicious comments, but they were formulated in a way that made it impossible to judge if he was serious or not. Andrés knew he was simply being mean, but Lucía's friends were confused and naïve enough to react with good nature. 

In the club, Andrés kept his arms wrapped around his girlfriend at all times, swaying to the music and enjoying Lucía's perfume, her delicate body and plump lips. At some point, he'd spotted Martín, held up against the wall by some _macho_ , clearly enjoying the man's tongue down his throat. 

The three of them were the only ones to reach the last bar, having lost the rest of their group somewhere along the way. Martín stumbled towards the counter and ordered tequila shots. They sat by the table, Lucía in Andrés' lap, her hair tickling the skin on his neck. They drank, they sang a few songs, Lucía went on and on about how intelligent Martín was. The man himself wasn't impressed by her monologue on how amazing it must have been to study engeneering, his eyes were watery, lips red and swollen, and he was barely keeping himself upright. Andrés asked if they could crash at Martín's place, since it was the closest to the bar. Martín agreed, of course. 

When Andrés woke up around noon, he couldn't see anything and he soon realised that his face was in Lucía's curls, the girl sleeping soundly in his arms, her make-up smudged, making her look a little bit like a fallen angel. She still looked beautiful, though, and Andrés smiled. He felt something against the nape of his neck, too, so he moved a bit to look over his shoulder and saw Martín, curled up into a ball, his forehead pressed against Andrés' back, hand twisted in the material of his shirt. 

He distangled himself from between the two and padded to the kitchen to get a glass of water. It tasted like pure relief. He put the kettle on to make coffee and glanced into the fridge to find it empty safe for four eggs, a bottle of milk, a bottle of tequila and a sad-looking tomato.

He came back into the room to find Lucía spawled out on her back, the back of her hand resting against the top of Martín's head. Andrés couldn't help but grin at how utterly perfect they were.

Half an hour later, when he returned with groceries, Lucía was already up. She kissed him on the cheek. 

"I need to take a shower, do you think Martín will borrow me some of his clothes?" she asked with a disarming smile. 

"Take whatever you need, he won't mind."

Soon, she was parading around in a silk shirt, helping Andrés make breakfast. 

When Martín finally emerged from the bedroom, they were eating already. He looked a mess - his neck was covered in small bruises, his eyes were red-rimmed and half-closed and his hair was sticking out in weird places. He groaned at the sight of them, groaned at the food offered, groaned as Lucía explained that she borrowed his shirt. He pulled the milk from the fridge and drank straight from the bottle. 

"Martín," Andrés said, amused to no end. "That's so disgusting." 

The following weeks were some of the happiest in Andrés' life. It was getting a little bit colder, so breathing in Buenos Aires was no longer a challenge, Lucía was a lovely presence, filling the void that Gabriela left with laughter, chatter and admiration for Andrés. And, of course, she looked like a Botticelli painting, so he kept drawing her, although it was difficult to find the girl sitting still for longer than three minutes. She was working in a small café and the patrons loved her, because she was almost flying around the tables, quick on her feet, always smiling and joking with the customers. Andrés would find a place in the corner to read and she would come and sit in his lap whenever she had any break from work. On her days off, they were walking around the city and she always had something to show him, and she was always excited about it.

Every other day he would visit Martín, too, and most od the time Lucía accompanied him. "You already know everything!" she would say and try to pull Martín away from books and most times, he'd oblige with an exasperated smile. He looked tired, though, his movements fewer and slower, his voice quieter and with less fire behind it. He would touch Andrés less, too; he'd still close his eyes and lean in whenever Andrés offered him any physical contact, but his own touches were careful, feather-light: a hand on Andrés' back or shoulder, a slight nudge, sometimes, very rarely now, fingers circling themselves around his wrist. 

In the meantime, Andrés called Sergio to ask him to check if there were any nice villas to be bought along Côte d'Azur. And of course, Sergio did not dissapoint - he's found him a perfect little house on the coast. 

"We're going to France, _mon amour_ ," he informed Lucía and she jumped right into his arms. 

"I'm going back to Europe," he told Martín who turned away to look through a window, his shoulders tense. 

"What about Lucí?" he asked. 

"She's coming with me, of course."

Martín didn't say anything. 

They didn't hug at the airport, but Andrés grabbed his friend by the nape of the neck and smiled, handing him a Nokia, telling him to stay in touch. Martín nodded, not looking at him. 

When Andrés stepped away, towards the gates, Lucía wrapped his arms tightly around Martín's neck, hugging him properly. Martín held back and for the first time, Andrés could not name the emotion that he saw in his eyes when Martín finally stared at him over Lucía's shoulder. 

_July 2002, Côte d'Azur, France_

"We're getting married!" Andrés spread out his arms, announcing the big news to his brother, Lucía mirroring his gest, albeit with some reserve as she gave Sergio a shy smile. 

Sergio's arms dropped to his sides, his face twisting in agony, but he quickly composed himself, adjusting his glasses. 

"Well, um-... Congratulations, then?" 

"Thank you. Lucía, my love, will you go fix us some of your delicious mohitos? _Merci_ , sweetheart," he said as his little angel winked at him and walked away. 

"What do you want?" Sergio asked, deadpan, and Andrés laughed, wrapping an arm around him.

"See, I fixed the date so that my best man could be here, but I'm gonna need you to fetch him for me. I'm busy with preparations and Martín is in Argentina."

"No," Sergio hissed.

"Yeees," Andrés replied. "Look, I have his address, I just need you to pick the poor boy up, because he's never traveled. Sergio, he's incredibly intelligent. Not only that, he's a complete nerd. You'll love him!"

"I hate him," Sergio declared, walking in.

"Andrés!" Martín grinned, following Sergio and immediately throwing himself at his friend. He smelled of alcohol and Andrés wrapped his arms around him, swaying lightly from side to side.

"I see you're already celebrating," he chuckled.

"The plane was scary," Martín pouted. "I know how they work and you would think that'd be comforting, but it means I also know exactly what happens when something breaks. Only ten percent of accidents are lethal, but that ten percent could fuck me up, no?"

"Maybe. Still, without taking that risk, you wouldn't be here. Come, I'll show you the guest bedroom." 

Martín was apparently doing his best to stay at least a little bit drunk throughout his visit. He was helping Andrés any way he could, of course, but a glass of vodka tonic was as if glued to his hand.

"Why vodka tonic? I thought you preffered wine and tequila," Andrés asked.

"There are different kinds of drunk. And I'm at my best when I'm drunk on vodka," Martín flashed him a smile.

The wedding took place at dusk, on a nice, elegant boat, with a handful of friends and acquaintances. Lucía's dress was long and flowy and there were flowers in her hair. Andrés found it hard to look away from her. She was like a ray of sunshine, so petite in his arms, but so full of life.

After they've exchanged rings, Andrés led Lucía to the middle of the deck, excited for their first dance as everyone gathered around them in a circle. As he turned to one of the waiters to let him know it was time to turn on the music, he spotted Martín, guitar in hand. The man smiled at him and winked. Andrés blinked in surprise, but then smiled back, nodding. 

Martín leaned against the mast and began strumming on the guitar. It was perfectly tuned. Then, he sang with in clear, soft, _beautiful_ voice. 

" _Volver a los diecisiete..._ " 

Andrés pulled Lucía close to her. They danced slowly, swaying to the sounds of the guitar, their eyes closed, foreheads touching. Andrés loved her like the jewels he stole; he stole her, too, took her from her home, from her country and now she was his most treasured little trinket. 

" _Mi paso retrocedido_

_Cuando el de ustedes avanza_

_El arco de las alianzas_

_Ha penetrado en mi nido_

_Con todo su colorido_

_Se ha paseado por mis venas_

_Y hasta las duras cadenas_

_Con que nos ata el destino_

_Es como un diamante fino_

_Que alumbra mi alma serena..._ " 

He didn't know Martín could play the guitar, let alone sing. Now, Andrés had a way with words, he could use them to get himself into or out of any situation. Martín's singing made him feel... some kind of way. He found himself unable to describe it. He was feeling sad and happy at the same time, both anxious and calm. _Saudade_ came to his mind, a word the Portuguese used to describe longing for something indefinite, a kind of bitterweet nostalgia. 

" _El amor es torbellino_

_De pureza original_

_Hasta el feroz animal_

_Susurra su dulce trino..._ " 

Andrés held Lucía closer, tucked under his chin. He opened his eyes to look at Martín and found him staring at them, as he must've been from the beginning. He was still singing, with no sign on drunkness in his voice or his gaze. 

" _El amor con sus esmeros_

_Al viejo lo vuelve niño_

_Y al malo solo el cariño_

_Lo vuelve puro y sincero..."_

Their eyes didn't leave each other until the song ended.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its like the Warner Bros logo in Harry Potter movies; IT GETS DARKER WITH EACH CHAPTER hahaha

_January 2003, Buenos Aires_

"I am officially an alumni," Martín declared over the phone, some pride creeping up into his voice.

He was lounging in a café, an americano on ice in hand, the diploma on the table before him. He ran his fingers over the cover, thinking about his parents, about his father telling him he'd never amount to anything, about his mother degrading his every attempt at doing good at school.

"Were they smitten with you? I know they were," he could hear the smile in Andrés' voice. It was easy to imagine he was beaming somewhere over the ocean. "What are you going to do now?"

"Well, I need to get a job, don't I?" Martín sighed, reaching for the newspaper he was reading before he called Andrés. "My thesis was on hydraulics, because it's fun in theory, but I'm thinking more like construction? Next time you visit, I could maybe point to a bridge and say: _I was the one who made it stand without falling apart_."

"Martín, you are an absolute delight."

He heard commotion on the other end of the call, then; it was Lucía, asking Andrés if he was talking to Martín and then apparently moving closer to the phone to yell _Congratulations!_

"Thanks. Give her a kiss on the cheek from me," Martín smiled fondly. He really did like Lucía. There was an ugly part of him that was spiteful, of course there was; she took Andrés away from him. But he was rational enough to know that Andrés was never his in the first place. It wasn't the first time he was falling for a straight man, either, only this time he valued their friendship way too much to let his feelings ruin it. He would rather grab them by the throat and drown them. Besides, Lucía was a genuinely nice girl. She was humble, kind, fun. The polar opposite of Martín's arrogant, useless, cruel mother, who thought so highly of herself, but who could only get high and whore herself out, who would get beaten by her lover, because he wasn't even her husband, and then instead of trying to protect her son from the same, she would be the one doing that, taking all that hurt and turning it into madness that she unleashed upon Martín, and he was just a kid, for fuck's sake-...

"Martín?" Andrés' gentle voice pulled him out of the hellhole that was his brain.

"Sorry. Got lost in thought."

"It's alright. I need to go, though. I'm sure you'll find work in no time."

  
Martín did find work. He also got thrown out after a week for calling his boss an idiot to his stupid, fat, bland face. 

His next job didn't go any better - the architect whom he was supposed to work with was more worried about aesthetics than functionality. He called her a stupid cunt and shut the door in her face.

Finally, he gave up on big companies and ambitious projects. Instead, he began working on smaller ones, mostly advising people who were building or renovating their own spaces; luckily, most of them trusted his judgement. He even made some collegues, mostly poor workers who enjoyed grabbing a beer after a long day on the construction site. 

He was still talking to Andrés once a week or so. He missed him a lot and he was grateful for having a job to keep him busy. At some point, he even got a postcard from Italy - he stared at the beautiful buildings and then at the photo that Andrés attached, of him and Lucía, grinning into the camera, arms around each other. Martín closed his eyes and recalled his warmth, the smell of his cologne and the feeling of his hands against his skin. 

He missed him. 

  
_August 2003, Buenos Aires_

Martín had a day off and since the weather was a nightmare, he stayed in his flat, reading _Crime and Punishment_ since Andrés recommended it to him. He was drinking mulled wine, trying to get some of that pleasant buzz in his head. Martín was a very alert person and he loved alcohol for how it dulled his senses. To him, it was calming. 

He frowned when he heard knocking. It was late. It could be Alejandro, but they didn't really visit one another unannounced like that. Alejandro was a manual worker, almost forty years old, handsome with white teeth and grey strands in his black hair. He was a simple and kind man, but he fucked Martín roughly and didn't want anything else. Martín liked that. 

He went to open the door and was left speechless when he saw Lucía on the other side, her eyes red-rimmed and a suitcase next to her. 

"He's left me," she said and broke down in tears. 

Martín let her inside, sat her down on his bed and pulled out a hoodie from his closet. 

"Put it on, you're cold," he murmured before going to the kitchen to prepare a whole jug of mulled wine that would be indispensable to the conversation they were about to have. He returned to the room, poured Lucía a glass, sat down next to her and wrapped her in a tight hug. 

"Can I stay here for one night?" she asked, hiccuping. "I have a train to Rosario in the morning."

Martín was surprised at his own gentleness as he wiped the tears from her cheeks. 

"Not a problem," he said. "Tell me what happened."

So she did. She's told him a lot of things - how Andrés was not as caring as he seemed, how he would get controlling, or cold, or angry; how he snapped and told her she was being annoying, told her she talked too much; finally, how he sent her away, saying he got bored of her. 

"Martín," she sniffled. "He's mean. He's really, really mean. You have to be careful, he'll hurt you."

"I know," he said with a small smile and Lucía stared at him, confused, but then her eyes widened in understanding. 

"You-..." 

"Look," Martín didn't let her finish. He didn't need a lecture. "He loved you at first, in his own dumb way. You had fun. You traveled. You tried, right? So, take what's good and fuck the rest. If he was being an asshole, don't cry because of him. Leave and look for happiness elsewhere."

It may have been a little harsh, but it was honest truth. And maybe, the part of him that was already so fiercely loyal to Andrés was telling him that his word was law; if Andrés said it was over, it was over. An even smaller part of his mind, the jealous part, held its bitter triumph: with him, Andrés could talk for hours and not get bored.

He drank from his glass to chase these thoughts away. When Lucía finally cried herself to sleep, he let her stay in his bed and took the couch instead. In the morning, he even called for a taxi that would take her safely to the station. When she hugged him goodbye, she gave him a worried look. 

"Take care of yourself."

  
In all honesty, Martín should have expected that Andrés would show up at his door two days after Lucía. This time he was with Alejandro, though, and he groaned and pushed the man away to get up when he heard knocking. He let Andrés in; he looked, for the lack of a better word, pissed. He walked in without a word but stopped dead in his tracks when Alejandro walked out of Martín's bedroom, leaning against the door frame. Martín turned around to throw him a pleading look and Alejandro, bless his soul, understood. 

"I'm going to go," he said, buttoning his shirt back up. He grabbed his jacket, slipped the shoes on and ruffled Martín's hair.

"Thanks," he muttered in response. 

When the door closed behind the man, Andrés immediately snapped. 

"My mariage is broken and you're what, whoring yourself out?" he spat. 

Martín flinched, feeling as if he's been slapped across the face. But he stood his ground, crossing his arms over his naked chest, eyes fixed on Andrés who was breathing hard from barely contained anger. 

"Come on, say something witty, I dare you," he growled but again, Martín stayed silent, waiting for the outburst to be over. It was the first time he was seeing Andrés lose control over his emotions and he knew he had to be watchful.

So he observed, both wary and curious, as Andrés slowly went down from his high and finally, flopped onto a chair, letting out a heavy breath, bowing his head. That's when he approached him and when Andrés didn't move, he gently laid one hand on the side of his neck, slipping the other into his hair. He smirked victoriously when Andrés leaned in, pressing his forehead against his stomach. He waited, running his fingers through the dark strands. Finally, Andrés spoke.

"I couldn't stand her. At first I liked that she was so lively, such a chatterbox. But then, it became so incredibly annoying, Martín. I would be reading and she would come in and just start babbling about her friends, or about the weather, or about Shakira or fuck knows what else. Why don't women ever know when to shut up? And she was so... naïve, ignorant. So frustrating," he mumbled and Martín hummed, wondering at how blinded Andrés has been. "And the scene she made when I gave her the papers. That was a little entertaining, I have to admit."

"Speaking of making a scene..." Martín began in a quiet, tender voice. "What was that about me whoring myself out, hm?"

"Ahh," Andrés chuckled. "I'm sure that he is a perfect gentleman."

"Apology accepted," he whispered. Andrés didn't move, apparently happy with the attention Martín was giving him. They stayed like that for another moment or two, until Andrés finally groaned and stretched his back. 

"I need to find a hotel, maybe some champagne with strawberries brought into the room could brighten my spirit which has fallen into a loveless pit," he sighed. 

"Or you could stay here." 

"Martín..." Andrés grinned, his tone teasing. "Could it be that your lover has not sated you enough?" 

"He would have," Martín crossed his arms over his chest. "If it wasn't for someone barging in to make everything about himself."

Andrés feigned an offended gasp at that and they both laughed.

He ended up staying, of course, and they even shared the bed like it was nothing, like the year spent apart didn't change anything. Being close was still as easy and natural for them as breathing. Martín slept on his stomach, with his arms folded under the pillow, and when he stirred at some point during the night, he felt a comforting pressure of an arm thrown over his back. 

When he woke up in the morning, the first thing he saw was Andrés' grin, and not the happy one; it was the dangerous one.

"You have to stop waking me up like that," Martín mumbled, but Andrés only waved a hand at that. 

"I made you some coffee. We need to talk. I have... an offer." 


	6. Chapter 6

_December 2003, Berlin_

"They say Hitler was the one who ordered to set fire to the Reichstag," Andrés said, staring at the impressive building. "Because while it burned, he could point fingers at his opponents and issue a national security decree which has stripped the people of their civil rights. Smart move, if you ask me."

He turned to Martín, who was smirking.

"I knew you would be the type to call Hitler smart," he said and Andrés nudged him slightly. Martín just stared back at the building.

"It must've been tough to put out," he bit his lip and Andrés knew he got lost in mechanics and thermodynamics. He's spent the next ten minutes trying to explain to Andrés the differences between detonation and deflagration, talking fast, making it hard to follow. Making it a challenge that Andrés gladly accepted.

Martín talked a lot during their visit to the Museum für Kommunikation, where he was happy as a child. In return, Andrés told him everything he knew about the paintings and sculptures in all of the art galleries on the Museumsinsel. He watched his friend stare at Caspar David Fredrich's work and told him all about romanticism. They went for dinner, then, and Andrés moved on to Goethe, then to Schubert, promising Martín they would go to the philharmony. Finally, they retired to the flat they rented and Andrés flopped onto the couch and watched with twisted satisfaction as Martín kneeled next to him, like a loyal servant. Unlike a servant, he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

"You said you wanted to steal something," Martín murmured, tilting his head. "I agreed to help. Tell me about it?"

"I'll show you tomorrow. It's going to be... a test," he smiled as Martín's eyes twinkled with interest.

The next day, he led him to one of the jewelry stores on Unter den Linden. As they approached the building, modern and luxurious, Andrés wrapped an arm around Martín's waist and pulled him close, making him gasp in surprise.

"Shh, it's okay," he smirked. "We'll play out your little fantasy."

Martín understood and he relaxed a little, leaning against him to murmur in his ear.

"Go fuck yourself," he whispered and Andrés couldn't help but grin. He appreciated the strange mixture that was Martín's devotion and his pride. He was the definition of passive-agressive.

"I want the rubies, the diamonds and the benitoites," he said into Martín's ear, grinning in delight at how it made the poor man blush slightly. "They should be in the cabinets on the right. I need you to remember as many details about the place as you can."

They walked in and Andrés let go of Martín, leaving him to look around as he pleased. He approched the counter and beamed at the shop-assistant.

_"Ich möchte eine schöne Armbanduhr für meinen Geliebten kaufen."_

With her help, he picked out a watch - a silver one, simple enough, sturdy but elegant. He paid an insane amount of money and she put the watch into a nice box and wrapped a silk ribbon around it. She was a very pretty woman, Andrés noted.

" _Er ist sehr gut aussehend_ ," she said as she handed him the box, nodding towards Martín. Andrés thanked her twice before walking back to his friend, grabbing his hand and leading him out of the store. He let go of his hand after turning the corner. He didn't talk, seeing that Martín was frowning, clearly lost in thought. When they reached the flat, the Argentinian took off his coat and turned to Andrés.

"Any plans for today?" he asked.

Andrés shook his head.

"I decided you'd probably need time to work. Any ideas?"

"Yeah. Yeah, some, but I need to think."

Andrés nodded and moved closer, pulling the box out of his pocket. Martín raised an eyebrow when he opened the box to reveal the watch.

"What's that?" he asked quietly.

"It's a wristwatch, Martín, it shows time," he said flatly. "Show me your arm."

Martín obedied without a word and Andrés rolled up his sleeve and fastened the gift around his wrist.

"Classy," he said under his breath. "You'll pay me back with jewels."

It was mesmerizing to watch Martín work; he got so absorbed in it that he even ignored Andrés for the most part. The first day, he left for a few hours and came back with a bunch of maps and plans. Unceremoniously, he swiped Andrés' books off the table and hunched over his papers there, pencil in hand.

The second day, he left again, came back late and exhausted, took a shower and sat back down to draw something out. His eyes were roaming over the plans, he had the habit of ruffling his hair when he got frustrated and chewing on the pencil whenever he was concentrating really hard. Andrés could clearly see that this challenge, this test, was important to him.

"You need to get me some TNT and a timer," he said in Andrés' direction on the third day and he grinned, picking up the phone to call one of his german collegues.

On fourth day, Martín got his TNT, locked himself in his room and didn't emerge until late at night.

In the afternoon of the fifth day, as Andrés was reading _Die Zeit_ , Martín barged into the kitchen and placed an actual bomb on the table.

"Martín," Andrés folded the newspaper. "You spilled my coffee. Also, there are explosives on the table."

"Yes," Martín said, grinning like a madman. The look suited him, Andrés thought, leaning back in his chair.

"I'm listening."

"This-... it has a timer, you see? It's completely safe, I promise. With this, we blow up the electric power distribution point. No light, no alarms. Into the store-... we get through the basement, there's an entrance in the back, you get to the courtyard from the parallel street, then into the basement, I guess you can pick locks, yes? Good, okay, then, there is no alarm, right, and it's dark, but that's okay, I know the layout; you go into the store and there's the armored glass in the cabinets, right? You said we were stealing something, so I got some pieces back in Argentina and brought them here to make an abrasive water jet, it can cut through anything, great technology, really. So, you cut a hole, you get whatever you want, you leave. We need gloves and masks, of course, and-... I was thinking, New Year's Eve? An explosion surely will be noticed with some delay, there will be a lot of drunk people and different incidents everywhere, especially with the fireworks, so the services will be busy. The whole ordeal should take approximately twelve minutes."

Martín was panting, his cheeks flushed, staring at him with fire in his eyes. He was so excited, so eager to present his idea to Andrés, so nervous to do it...

Andrés got to his feet and took Martín's face in his hands, leaning very close, thumbs stroking his burning cheeks.

"You are the smartest, cleverest little thing I have ever met," he whispered before wrapping his arms around Martín to hug him properly.

"Such a _good boy_ ," he added, accentuating each syllabe. He felt Martín shiver in his hold and felt intoxicated by it, by making him shake with just a few words.

He caught himself wondering what it would be like to take Martín as his lover. Andrés loved women, he loved them very much, but that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate a male body. He was an artist, after all. Besides, it didn't matter whose eyes were staring at him, as long as they stared with adoration.

He felt more than heard Martín take a shuddering breath through his nose, which was pressed to Andrés' neck.

No, he decided. This was perfect. More than friends, less than lovers. An ideal balance where they were constantly fueled, needing more, but afraid to break what was already there.

So he pulled back, finally, and gave Martín a soft, almost apologetic smile.

"Let's go get you something to eat."

He took Martín to _Weihnachtsmarkt_ , a traditional Christmas market, and bought him more sweet treats than he could carry. Since the holidays were only two days away, he also bought some local food and wine.

He kept glancing at Martín, who was walking around with a smile on his face, looking through the Christmas decorations and fairy lights. At some point, small snowflakes began falling from the sky and Martín stared in wonder.

Andrés realized he's probably never seen snow before.

_New Years, 2004, Bundesautobahn 115_

It was snowing heavily and the fireworks were still going off over their heads as they drove down the autoroute, laughing, leaving Berlin.

"Happy New Year!" Andrés yelled and Martín howled with delight. Their pockets were full of precious stones and they were heading to Nuremberg, where Sergio was waiting for them with new ID's.

"I think it's a good time to tell you," Andrés began, a grin still on his face as he glanced at Martín who opened a bottle of champagne, sending the cork flying out of the window before he put the bottle to his lips. "My driving license is also fake, I never even took the exam."

Martín choked on champagne and it went out of his mouth and nose, splattering all over the dashboard. Andrés laughed so hard he almost cried.

Five hours later, Andrés pulled up into the driveway of a small house on the outskirts of Nuremberg. He got out of the car and opened the door on the passenger's side. Martín drank the entire bottle on the way and he was passed out, so Andrés groaned as he picked him up and closed the door with his elbow. He turned towards the house and saw Sergio standing in the doorway, staring at him with the scorn of a disappointed mother.

"What?" Andrés flashed him a smile as he carried Martín into the house, Sergio closing the door behind them.

"What is he now, your boyfriend?"

"No," he said, laying Martín down on the couch and throwing a blanket over him. "He's my pet."

"Jesus Christ, Andrés," Sergio dragged a hand over his face. "A pet? Seriously?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

"Remember your last pet? The parrot that got eaten by a cat?"

Andrés laughed at that, head thrown back.

"Of course I remember, dear Sergio, but I think you misunderstood," he said, looking down at his sleeping friend with a fond smile. "Martín is the _cat_."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY

_New Years 2004, Nuremberg_

Martín stirred and he slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a pair of brown eyes staring at him from behind glasses.

"FUCK!" he yelled, bolting to his feet. "What kind of a fucked up family are you?!"

Sergio frowned at him.

"I was just-... checking up on you. You seemed pretty out of it last night."

"Oh, yeah," Martín scratched at the back of his head. "Considering the last time we've met, you must think I'm some kind of an alcoholic. You're probably not entirely wrong."

He looked around the house. It was mostly wooden, not luxurious in any way, but nice enough with a cracking fireplace and comfortable-looking armchairs and pillows. There were a lot of books, too, and Martín smiled.

"Cool house," he tried, glancing at Sergio who smiled back at him. Score.

"Come, it's already four in the afternoon, you must be hungry," Sergio led him to the kitchen and turned on the stove to heat up the food. After a few minutes, Martín was served a huge bowl of steaming curry that smelled absolutely amazing. He started eating and moaned in delight.

"Did you cook this?" he asked and Sergio shook his head, taking the place across the table from Martín.

"Andrés did. I can cook, but not too well."

"Mm... Where is he, anyway?"

"He went for a walk," Sergio took off his glasses, fiddling with them as Martín finished eating. Then, he put them back on and cleared his throat.

"Look, I don't know what do you want with my brother..."

"Oh no, here we go," Martín groaned, closing his eyes.

"...but he doesn't really do friends. He has... collegues. Acquaintances. He's had two wives and many, um, other women, but I've never seen him make friends before. I'm not sure if you're the first. I have no idea why he keeps dragging you along. Maybe he does like you. But I don't want you putting him in danger," Sergio finished, the last phrase said in a hard voice as he glared at Martín.

That's all he really needed to snap.

"Oh, really? You don't want _me_ to put _Andrés_ in any trouble? Wait, how did it go..? AH, YES. _Hey, Martín, let's steal some jewels_ , he said! _How about my brother gets us some false papers_ , he said! You know what, Sergio? You can take your dumb, useless warnings and shove them up your ass!" he hissed.

Sergio raised his hands in surrender.

"I don't want to fight. He's my brother, I love him very much. I just want what's best for him," he explained, blinking nervously.

"Whatever," Martín sighed, even through blood was still boiling in his veins. "Let's drop the subject."

Half an hour later, Andrés came back. Martín immediately stood up from where he was lounging by the fireplace and walked over to him to put warm hands over his freezing cheeks, ignoring the incredulous look from Sergio who walked out of the kitchen with a steaming mug in his hands.

" _Dios mío_ , you are so warm," Andrés grinned and immediately hugged Martín who held back despite the cold, but he made sure to turn a little so that he could stick his tongue out to Sergio.

"Did you two kids get along while I was gone?" Andrés asked.

"Yes," they both answered at the same time.

"Good. Come on, Martín, let's look through our new fortune," he smiled and they both went upstairs, where Andrés sorted out the jewels, estimating their value. Martín was grinning the whole time and finally, he leaned in to pick up one of the rubies, watching it reflect the light.

"Now what?" he asked quietly, full of wonder.

"Now, my dear partner in crime, we travel and we live like kings."

_March 2004, Vienna_

Martín turned around a few times, stretching out his arms. 

"So? What do you think?" 

He was dressed in tight grey jeans and a loose printed shirt, black and gold, showing off his collarbones and a part of his chest. On his wrist, of course, was the silver watch he got from Andrés. 

The other man laughed. 

"I wouldn't necessarily call it classy, but it looks good," he said with a smirk. "Perfect for the summer. What about this hat?" 

Martín watched him put on an elegant, black Panama hat. Andrés turned to him, striking a pose, and Martín pursed his lips. 

"Sooo mysterious, who is that gentleman?" he teased.

A year ago, when he was still in Buenos Aires, looking for jobs, he would have never imagined that he would end up with Andrés in Vienna's Goldenes Quartier, dressing up in the most luxurious clothes, joking around, tickets to the State Opera in their pockets. 

It was like living the dream. 

_July 2004, Palermo_

"That's so fucked up, Andrés," Martín said, grinning. "I love it."

They were in the Capuchin Catacombs and the walls were lined with mummies, hundreds of them.

Andrés only smiled and grabbed his arm, leading him to a room which was especially frightening, since there were mummified children there.

" _La Bella Addormentata_ ," Andrés whispered, nodding towards a casket behind glass. Martín approached it slowly. "The Sleeping Beauty."

His breath hitched in his throat as he saw a baby girl, who indeed looked almost as if she was asleep, but she was very much dead. He shivered when he heard Andrés voice close to his ear.

"Rosalía Lombardo. She died almost a hundred years ago, during the spanish flu epidemic. She was two years old. Her father was in despair, he begged the monks to let her into the catacombs. And so they did. And she's stayed the same."

"That's so..." Martín breathed, staring at the girl's face. "That's like cheating death. Stopping time."

"Exactly," Andrés murmured.

Martín felt as if the mummies were all staring at him.

Outside, it was still hot, so they took shelter in a small café. Martín sipped slowly on his coffee, his gaze slipping over the buildings around them, bathed in the evening sun.

They took the long road to their rented flat and sat on the balcony, opening a bottle of Chardonnay and stretching their legs out. 

"I want you to teach me italian," Martín said finally, looking up at Andrés. He's fallen in love with the country; they've already visited Milan, Florence which was Andrés' favourite, then Rome and Naples, but no other place has made Martín feel the way Palermo did. The ancient buildings, the narrow, cobbled streets, the sun, the mountains, the sea, the food; everything about the city made Martín love it like a homeland, even more than Buenos Aires. 

Andrés grinned at him, getting up. 

"You already know some italian, look," he said, pulling Martín to stand up as well and then wrapping an arm around him, not letting go of his hand. Slowly, he started moving, as if they were dancing to non-existent music. 

" _Lento_ ," he said. "Then, _adagio_..." 

Martín must've smiled like an idiot at him, but to hell with that. He followed Andrés' footsteps as he was moving more and more quickly. 

" _Andante, moderato, allegro_!" he laughed and laughed as they spinned around the balcony. 

It must've been the happiest moment of Martín's life. 

_November 2004, Paris_

The french capital was being a bitch, Martín decided, closing the umbrella they've shared on the way and handing it along with his coat to the cloakroom attendant.

It's been raining non stop for two weeks now and Martín would've been content to stay in the beautiful apartment on Avenue Emil Deschanel, right near the damn Eiffel Tower, but Andrés was having none of it, wanting to go out every night. Now, Martín had nothing against the opera or the museums, but the bars and clubs were draining the life out of him. Andrés would charm women and Martín had no choice but to sulk in the corner. Since his french was awful, he couldn't even flirt around; since they've been in Paris, he's only gotten laid once, if you could even call a messy blowjob in a bathroom getting laid. 

"Andrés, do we really have to?"

"I guess there's no point in trying to explain to you the absolute beauty of parisian girls-... Ah, _bonsoir, mesdames_!" Andrés grinned, spotting a few ladies he's met before. He left to sit with them and Martín groaned. 

He found a place to sit and stared at people, nursing drink after drink as his gaze kept running back to Andrés entertaining the three girls, who, of course, were delighted.

The evening turned into the night, everyone in the luxurious club was having fun, and Martín couldn't decide if he was drunk, resentful or bored. As he watched Andrés tuck a strand of hair behind the ear of one of the giggling chicks, an idea struck him and he smirked, getting up. In a few steps, he was next to them.

" _Pardon_ ," he mumbled to the girl before putting himself between her and Andrés, raising his arms to wrap them around the man's neck.

"Stop playing with them, _mi amor_ , I'm tired and I want to go home," he purred, watching his eyes widen. He pulled away to look at the three women and motioned between him and Andrés, then made a vulgar gesture as if to say they were fucking. The girls stared at him, shocked, but then they mumbled something in french, half-amused, half-abashed, and left, throwing them perplexed glances over their shoulders.

He grinned, proud of his jest. Then, he felt Andrés' hand at the nape of his neck. He turned to see his tight smile. Without a word, Andrés led him outside, stopping only to take their coats but ignoring the umbrella. His hand was still on Martín's nape as they walked home through the rain.

"Should've taken the umbrella, Andrés, it's fucking cold," he laughed, stumbling slightly. Andrés said nothing.

Finally, they reached their warm, dry apartment.

The last thing Martín expected was for the hand at his neck to tighten and for Andrés to basically throw him onto the hardwood floor.

"Ouch! What the-..." he turned onto his back and then, there were hands gripping his throat, pressing him to the floor, painful and unrelenting.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Andrés hissed with fury in his voice and Martín couldn't breathe, his body twisting and turning, trying to escape the vice-like grip.

He tried to scratch at Andrés' hands, he kicked his legs, but he couldn't free himself. He was suffocating.

" An-drés-..." he rasped, begging.

" _Don't you dare ever embarrass me like that again_ ," Andrés growled, right into his face. A moment later, he let go.

Martín rolled to the side and then sat with his back against the wall, putting his hand to his neck which was rapidly swelling. He was coughing and gasping for breath, tears running down his cheeks as he looked up at Andrés standing above him, his face now calm and collected.

"Get some sleep," he said coldly before disappearing in his bedroom.

Martín curled up and cried.


	8. Chapter 8

In the morning, Andrés stared at the scratches on his hands for a few minutes before getting up and walking out of his bedroom.

He was surprised to find Martín already up and making breakfast. Andrés stepped into the kitchen and reached for a croissant, sitting by the table.

"Coffee?" Martín asked without looking up. His voice was hoarse and Andrés winced.

"Yes, please," he said and watched as Martín poured some into a cup and walked over to place it before him. Before he moved his hand away, Andrés grabbed his wrist and stood up. Martín averted his eyes as he gently pulled at the collar of his shirt with the tip of his finger to take a better look at the ugly bruises forming there. He clicked his tongue a few times, frowning.

"Look at me," he said and when Martín didn't, he grabbed his chin, careful not to be rough. "Hey, look at me."

Martín did.

Andrés has once visited Petersburg only to see the art museums there. One of the paintings that caught his attention was _The Last Day of Pompeii._ He was moved by the eyes of the figures; desperate, tearful, red-rimmed and so incredibly sad, with a hint of resignation.

Martín's gaze was the same. Andrés could feel his chin trembling under his fingers. He pulled away but kept the hold on the other's wrist to lead him to the couch where they sat down together. Slowly, gently, Andrés wrapped his arms around him and began stroking his hair, lips pressed to his temple.

"You can cry," he whispered, sensing that Martín was very tense.

As previously stated, Andrés lacked empathy. He could be moved by beauty, but raw human emotion in itself rarely resonated with him. He felt sorry for Sergio when his father died. He felt sorry for Sergio when their mother died, and even shed a few tears himself when he found out. He felt sorry for her when he watched her struggle with her disease. But that was it; Andrés just wasn't the type to empathize.

And yet, he felt something in his chest twist painfully when he listened to Martín's sobs. At first, they were more like tiny whimpers that he was trying to stifle, but as Andrés didn't let him go, he was soon burying his face in his chest, hands fisted in his shirt, and he was crying like a child.

"I don't have anyone but you," Martín said quietly half an hour later, lying on Andrés' chest, his voice still broken from crying and from Andrés' unforgivable hands.

Andrés didn't say anything to that, but he understood the weight behind these words: _I don't have a family. I don't have a lover. I have no choice but to stay with you._

_March 2005, Paris_

Anne-Marie was an improbable woman. First of all, she was beautiful. Not pretty, like Gabriela or Lucía, but beautiful, with her cold grey eyes, blond locks usually tied into an elegant bun and fair skin. Second of all, she was a thief; she shared Andrés' love for art and whenever she particularily liked a painting or a sculpture, she would do anything to have it. Third of all, she was absolutely ruthless. She had the audacity to challenge Andrés, to dispute with him, to mock him playfully. Oh, and it has taken Andrés two months to get her. Still, sometimes, she would distance herself from him and it was driving him mad with want.

"She's a crazy bitch," Martín said conversationally, opening a bottle of wine. "Merlot?"

"No, thanks," Andrés said and Martín shrugged, not bothering to look for a glass as he began drinking straight from the bottle. "What makes you call the light of my life a crazy bitch?"

"Didn't she say she smashed her ex-husband's balls with a hammer?"

"Well, he must've been a real ass."

Martín sighed and walked over to him, looking up into his eyes as they stood nose to nose. 

"Andrés, think for a moment. I know you're planning another hit and I assume it was her who didn't want me involved, but why? I have brains for that, you've said it yourself. Why not let me help you two?"

"Martín," Andrés smiled softly. "It's kind of a job for two. I understand you're jealous-..."

"I'm not! I'm just worried-.." he began, gripping Andrés' arms, but then they heard the door slam. Anne-Marie was back.

"Get your sticky hands off of my man," she hissed at Martín, walking closer. Martín pulled back as if he's been burned and Andrés shook his head, fondly.

"Be nice to my friend here, love," he said, wrapping his arms around her. She kissed him and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Martín slip out of the room.

_April 2005, Paris_

They got married right under the Eiffel Tower and they held their reception in an art gallery that they were planning to rob in a few weeks.

This time, Martín didn't bring his guitar; to Andrés' utter embarassment, he drank himself under the table in less than four hours. He decided he needed to talk to him about the dangers of alcoholism.

The day after the reception, Martín disappeared along with all of his belongings and even as a newlywed, Andrés felt lonely.

_August 2005, Palais des beaux-arts, Lille_

The moment he heard the gunshot, Andrés realized he's made a horrible, albeit romantic, mistake. 

His wife panicked and killed a police officer over a Picasso.

_February 2006, Villaverde, Madrid_

He's spent six months in prison and he hated every second of it. If it weren't for his Oscar-worthy portrayal of a clueless, abused husband, he would've gotten more, like Anne-Marie. 

The moment he was out, he traveled to Madrid, to Sergio, who didn't do anything to get him out of prison earlier, probably because, just like Martín, he was bitter about this latest, dramatic relationship.

Well, Andrés thought, it was fun while it lasted.

Sergio welcomed him with a raised eyebrow and arms crossed over his chest.

"I know," Andrés rolled his eyes. "Do you have the money I gave you for safekeeping? I need it, I have to go to Sicily."

Without a single word, Sergio led him upstairs, into his study, and pulled out not one, but two boxes out of one of many hidden compartiments he had installed in his Madrid home. In the first one, there was Andrés' small fortune. In the second, Andrés saw a few precious stones, including the rare benitoites, and a watch. 

"That's Martín's," he said quietly. 

"He came here to leave this," Sergio muttered, awkwardly fiddling with his hands. "He's not in Italy, Andrés. He's gone back to Argentina."

Andrés groaned, closing his eyes. 

"Will you get me a passport? I need to find him."

"Andrés, I don't think..." 

"Remember that dumb quote from Saint-Exupéry? _You're forever responsable for what you've tamed._ "

"You haven't tamed him! You're breaking him," Sergio waved his arms around in frustration. 

"Since when do you care about Martín?" Andrés snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"I don't! But if you keep dragging him along, he'll become a liability, he was already ill-balanced and rarely sober, I don't understand why are you so intent on keeping him around!" 

"Because he's my friend!" Andrés cried, his irritation going through the roof. "He's my friend and I like him! More than that, he's my _companion_."

Sergio stared at him, breathing heavily through his nose. 

"I've seen the way you are with him. You're treating him almost as if he was one of your women. Why not date him, then?" 

"Because he's so much more than any of these girls," he spat. "You don't get a say in what I do. Just get me the fucking papiers, Sergio, I'm going to Buenos Aires and I'm going to drag him back home."

Sergio fell silent. He turned away, towards the desk, and pulled out a binder. He shoved it into Andrés' hands. 

"And where is his home, exactly?" he asked quietly when Andrés turned to leave. He stopped, his shoulders tense. 

"Wherever I say it fucking is."

_February 2006, Buenos Aires_

Once again, he was in Argentina in summer and he hated it with burning passion. He was trying to take deep breaths, but the night air he gulped was rotten and instead of revitalizing his cells, it sat on the bottom of his lungs like mold. Karma was a bitch, he thought, that's what he was getting for putting his hands to Martín's neck. Now, the air that Martín breathed since he was born was getting revenge for its lost child, trying to suffocate Andrés.

Poetic, he thought as he reached his destination, a beautiful, modern building where Carlos said Martín's apartment was. If he had to take a wild guess, he would've stated that Martín's place was at the top floor, since the windows were illuminated by colourful lights and he could hear music, even from the street. He walked in and took the elevator; on the corridor, the bass was making the walls tremble. Andrés rolled his eyes when he pushed the door and found it unlocked.

The apartment was an elegant, well-designed place, but it was turned into a complete mess of a rave. The vulgar, electronic music was making his ears bleed, the lights tried to give him an epilepsy, the smoke from cigarettes and joints scratched at his throat and the smell-... alcohol, obviously, but also sweat mixed with the coarse stench of Axe, Old Spice and whatever kind of cheap, drug store brand of pseudo-perfumes the girls decided to bathe themselves in before the party. 

The floor was sticky, too. 

Andrés pushed through the crowd, disgusted and way too sober, looking for his friend. He bumped into a woman, a pretty one, with bright make-up and tight clothes. She gave him a grin. 

"The host?" Andrés called over the music. She took his hand and led him to the other side of the room. 

She managed to make some place around herself and Andrés. With people no longer blocking his vision, Andrés finally saw his friend and, well, the sight was something else. 

Martín was half-lying on a table, his shirt unbuttoned, a completely topless man standing between his legs, shoving his tongue down his throat. Martín was clawing at his back, pulling him closer, closer, his mouth opening time and time again, eyes closed, skin glistening with sweat.

"MARTÍN!" the girl yelled, clearly amused, and Martín pushed his lover away, frowning and looking around.

As his eyes landed on Andrés, his face froze in shock, then twisted with anger to finally stretch in a grin that could only be described as absolutely feral.

"Andrés!" he called, slipping off of the table. He moved like a cat, approaching him and wrapping his arms around his waist, throwing his head back to laugh before looking into Andrés' eyes.

Martín looked positively crazy, dark circles under his eyes, widened pupils, messy hair, bitten lips, bruised neck and chest. He was getting thinner, too, which Andrés didn't like.

"Look, Nicolas, Santiago!" Martín howled, his tone bordering on histeria. "That's my _best friend_ who I have not seen in _months_ , but he got out of _jail_ and decided to pay me a visit!" 

Andrés winced. 

"I don't know what he wants, but he clearly wants _something_ ," Martín's voice was getting lower and more venomous with every word. "Because otherwise, _he wouldn't care about me_. But I guess..."

He pulled Andrés closer, pressing his lips to his ear, his breath hot.

" _I guess that he's just bored because his perfect little wife is rotting in prison._ "

Andrés really wanted to be civil with him, he really wanted to try. But again, Martín needed to be put in his place, gently but firmly. He slid his fingers over the nape of his neck, into the thick hair there, which he grabbed and pulled, hard enough to cause pain even to the clearly drunk and high Martín, but careful not to make the gesture too obvious to other people around them.

"I'll come by tomorrow," he hissed, forcing himself to smile. "And if you're not sober, I'm going back to Spain. Without you."

He let go of his hair, straightened his tie and turned on his heel, leaving the apartment and not looking back to check if his threat had any effect on Martín.

He knew it did. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been less than 24 hours since the last update but frankly, I don't give a fuck at this point
> 
> I wanted to thank you all for your amazing comments, they're making my days sooo much better! I CRAVE ATTENTION
> 
> Also, I needed to change the rating.  
> Whoooops. 👀👀👀

_February 2006, Buenos Aires_

Martín was nervous. He may have been all cocky the previous night, but as the rest of the toxins left his body in the most undignified way - meaning he's spent two hours vomiting - his mind cleared and he realized Andrés was really there.

He looked around the apartment and a whine escaped his lips. He didn't want to clean everything up, but he needed to make it at least presentable. So he got to work. He gathered bottles, empty paper cups, cleaned the bathroom, the counters and even mopped the floors.

He looked at the clock - it was four in the afternoon, so he decided he still had some time before Andrés showed up. He walked back to the bedroom, where Luis was still asleep, sprawled out on the silk covers. Martín walked onto the bed on all fours and leaned down, pressing kisses to the man's neck.

"Mmm..?"

"Go brush your teeth, I want a fuck before I have to throw you out," he muttered. Luis nodded, still sleepy, got up and obediently headed to the adjacent bathroom.

Martín stared after him. If it wasn't for Andrés' arrival, maybe he would've dated Luis. The man was three years older than him, because Martín never got into bed with anyone younger, thank you very much, he was tall and handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes, lean but strong. And he was-... Well, maybe not smart, the bar was very high on that one, but he wasn't stupid. He was one of very few men who Martín sometimes allowed to stay after sex. They would have late breakfast and he would ask Martín about technology and physics, since he knew he was an engineer. And Martín would talk, forgetting about any sadness, he would talk and Luis would listen, quiet and attentive. He was just enough.

But Martín didn't want enough; he wanted more, always more. If there was to be sadness, he wanted it to be consuming, numbing, overwhelming. If there was to be despair, he wanted it to be total and maddening. He wanted to turn anger into rage, pleasure into pain, ice into fire. Even contentment; Martín wanted to drown in it.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a pair of arms around his middle. He closed his eyes and leaned into the embrace.

Since there was a storm coming anyway, he let Luis fuck him gently, almost tenderly.

  
"You literally look like a prostitute," were the words Andrés greeted him with when he arrived.

"And good evening to you, too," Martín said, closing the door. He walked further into the apartment, spreading his arms. "Look, I know you told me to be sober and I am, but since I have a lot of different liquors, maybe you'd like a glass of-... _Ow_!"

As always, Andrés surprised him. He expected a variety of things; cold anger, subtle distaste, amused dismissivness, maybe even a hint of apology hidden in a caring gesture. Instead, he was pushed onto the couch and manhandled onto his back, Andrés leaning over him. His choked on his breath when Andrés' fingers trailed over his neck down to his collarbones.

" _Uno, dos, tres... cinco... siete..._ " he heard Andrés count and his heart almost stopped when he realized what he was counting: hickeys.

"How many more are there?"

Martín swallowed.

"I-... I don't know," he mumbled and then gasped when Andrés' fingers started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing more and more skin. The only sounds in the room were Martín's panting and Andrés' quiet, husky voice.

" _Nueve... trece... dieciséis..._ Oh, Martín, really?" Martín dared to look down. Andrés has reached his hips, which were bruised all over. "What do you let these men do to you?"

Breathless, dizzy, with Andrés' hands resting right on his hipbones, Martín could barely speak.

"Everything," he breathed out and he saw Andrés' eyes darken.

A moment passed by and suddenly Andrés groaned and pulled away, flopping onto the couch.

"You're impossible," he said, rubbing at his temple. Martín scrambled up and almost climbed into the man's lap, letting his shirt fall to the floor and wrapping his bare arms loosely around Andrés' neck.

"I'm impossible? Just look at yourself," he purred. God, he was going crazy past the point of no return. He moved back just a little, his palm sliding down Andrés' arm to grab his hand. He guided it, placing it on his lower back, on the naked, burning skin, just above the belt. "Where's your wife, huh?"

He arched his back when he felt fingernails dig into his skin. Andrés sat up a little, his arm wrapping itself around Martín's waist and with one swift, strong movement, they were pressed closer, so _close_ , but Martín, brave as he was, would never dare to kiss him, he wouldn't _dare_ -...

"Fix me that drink, will you?" Andrés whispered, a grin spreading over his face.

Martín stared at him in shock and then, tension breaking, he fell; all energy left him and he fell right into Andrés embrace, and he couldn't help but laugh at the total absurdity of the situation, and soon, they were both laughing, completely relaxed, even if still flushed and shaking.

"You are such an asshole," Martín muttered with a fond smile, getting up and going over to the counter. He made Andrés caipirinha and handed him the glass, standing behind the couch as his guest stretched out on it, sipping on his drink.

Slowly, he laid his hands on both sides of Andrés neck. When he tilted his head to look back at him, nothing but warmth in his eyes, Martín slipped his hands under Andrés' shirt, onto his shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles into the muscles.

Andrés actually moaned at that, closing his eyes, letting his head rest on the back of the couch.

"Will you go back with me?" he asked after a few minutes.

"I don't know, give me some of that drink and I may think about it."

  
They shared the bed once again; this time, they were tightly wrapped around each other, Andrés' face pressed into Martín hair (" _Please wash it before we go to sleep, you still smell like Axe_ ") and Martín's nose in the crook of Andrés' neck (" _I swear, if you take off your shirt, I won't even try to get into your pants_ "). They fit together like puzzle pieces; Martín never felt so whole.

It felt even better when he woke up and Andrés was still next to him. He pulled away, just a little, just enough to look at him, at his peaceful expression, at the slow raise and fall of his chest. Martín felt a sob threaten to tear itself out of his throat; he was never a religious person, but he could only compare the feeling to that of standing in a huge cathedral, with daylight creeping in through high windows and stained glass. Slowly, carefully, he put his hand against Andrés' cheek and brushed his thumb against the man's lips.

Then, the lips were moving against his finger and he nearly had a heart attack.

"Why did you leave, Martín?" Andrés asked, cracking one eye open. Martín sighed deeply, moving his hand away and rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

"It's alright," he heard Andrés say. "I know you were jealous."

"I was not jealous, will you stop with that?!" he sat up, suddenly pissed. "Did I ever do anything to fuck up your marriage? No, I didn't, neither with Lucía nor with Anne-Marie, although I did warn you about that second hag. So stop being an ass for the sake of being an ass."

He felt Andrés' hand against his back, rubbing comfortingly. Grounding him. 

"Then why?"

"She would... say things to me. Behind your back," he explained quietly, wrapping his arms around himself. "It's not like I'm... not used. But it felt really draining."

"What did she say to you?" Andrés' voice was quiet.

"Faggot, disgusting, sick, pathetic, you know, the usual," he shrugged. "It's not like she was entirely wrong. It's just-... Her choice of words was really off-putting."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want for it to seem like I was jealous."

The bed shifted as Andrés got up and walked around it to stand in front of Martín. He took his face in hands, his gaze hard and serious, angry, even. He looked as if he was about to say something, but then he snorted and pulled Martín to his chest, hand at the back of his head.

  
"Are we leaving today?" Martín asked, chewing on his toast.

"I was planning to, but I don't feel like going straight to Europe... how about we steal something from the Americans?" Andrés winked at him and Martín felt himself smile with ease.

"You mean the US? Like, New York? Sounds nice. I could work in New York for a while," he said and Andrés grinned at him, bright as the sun. He took a sip of his coffee and then leaned in to look Martín in the eye.

"And then, when winter is over... We'll go to Palermo, how about that?"

Martín snickered.

"Are you trying to spoil me now? Careful."

"Maybe I am," he said, getting up. "I'm going back to the hotel, I need to change and call Sergio. You want to come with me?"

"Always."

  
He was lying on the bed, reading, when Andrés emerged from the bathroom, all refreshed. He leaned against the doorframe, looking at Martín.

"Get in here, you look like a homeless person," he said, teasing. "I'll help you shave."

"Which part?" Martín asked and Andrés laughed, throwing his head back, the sound deep and elegant, making Martín's heart swell.

He pulled himself up and walked into the bathroom, taking off his t-shirt on the way. Andrés sat him down on the edge of the bathtub. He put a towel around his shoulders, poured hot water into a bowl and applied shaving cream with a brush. Then, he pulled out a razor.

"Are you fucking kidding me? What is that, _Sweeney Todd_?" Martín sputtered, foam getting into his mouth.

"I'm old school," Andrés shrugged, smirking.

"Fucked up is what you are!" he jumped to his feet and ran out and into the bedroom, Andrés following, gesturing with the razor.

"Calm down, I just did the same thing to myself!"

"I'm not letting you slit my artery, you crazy bastard!"

For ten minutes straight, Martín tried to get away from Andrés, both of them laughing as he jumped over furniture, shaking his head vigorously.

In the end, he sat calmly, his head tilted back and eyes closed as he let Andrés slowly drag the razor over his throat.

Obviously. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be honest, writing from Andrés' perspective leaves a bad aftertaste in my mouth

_February 2006, Buenos Aires_

The AC was down again as they moved through Martín's apartment, preparing to leave, and Andrés was already covered in sweat. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and wiped at his forehead.

"Just take it off," Martín muttered from where he was sitting on the floor, looking through his books. He has already taken off his own t-shirt and Andrés felt... some kind of way about it.

He guessed he could consider himself as bisexual, but his attraction to women was definitely stronger. Physical attraction, at least. He would usually choose his women based on appearance, manners, first impression. With Martín, he was first drawn by his personality and intelligence. Then, by his passion and the whirlwind of his emotions. Now, he began to notice his body.

Eyes, first. Martín could tell him everything with his eyes, every little emotion. When he was calm, his eyes were naturally sad, their corners turned downwards, eyelids heavy, shadowing the blue with a fan of dark lashes.

These rare moments of quiet peace with Martín were the most worrisome to Andrés, to be honest. He could very well understand despair, fear, excitement, rage, wild happiness. He couldn't fathom the calm and the way Martín looked at him and touched him then. His hands were strong, rough, different from the delicate palms of a woman; but his touch was the most gentle thing Andrés has ever experienced. Nowadays, he found himself craving it.

Just as he craved to touch Martín's spine as he was leaning over his books. Andrés didn't like the fact that Martín was getting thin from too much drinking and vomiting and too little eating. On the other hand, he was curious to feel it - his ribs, his spine, his shoulder blades. Just like he's felt his hipbones, covered in bruises.

He could do it, of course he could. But nothing was as exciting as tension. He knew they were about to crash and burn; he wanted to stretch the wait for as long as possible. To see if they were really going to keep coming back to each other. To see how absolutely insane Martín really was.

And because the thought of finally having Martín was frightening.

He was lost so deep in his thoughts that he didn't even hear the doorbell. He only noticed when Martín got to his feet and walked to the door, Andrés' eyes following his every step. 

This time, argentinian karma that seemed to be after Andrés came in the form of a handsome, dark-haired man. Martín sighed deeply at the sight of him. The man frowned, looking into the apartment. 

"Who's that?" he asked, nodding towards Andrés who flashed him a smile because animals always showed their teeth when angry. 

"That's my friend, Andrés."

"Hey," the man said in his direction. "Luis."

" _Enchanté_ ," Andrés replied, almost laughing when the guy frowned in confusion.

Martín rolled his eyes and turned back to Luis, arms over his chest. He explained in a few words that he was leaving. The man didn't seem particularily moved, although he looked mildly surprised. He nodded. 

"Alright. Have a safe trip, then," he said. Then, he leaned down to kiss Martín. Andrés observed from the corner of his eye; the kiss was slow, deep, soft. 

Without breaking it, Martín opened his eyes and he looked straight at Andrés.

_Bastard_. 

  
_March 2006, Sotheby's, New York_

  
Martín created a short circuit to get rid of security cameras and alarms.

Andrés had a very pleasant meeting with the night guard, threating him with his newly acquired gun (bless the United States) and tying him up. 

Together, they walked around the auction house, picking out whatever they liked and whatever was easiest to take: jewels, watches, knick-knacks. 

"Andrés? How much is it worth?" Martín turned to him, a bottle of 70's Samaroli whisky in his hands. 

"About three thousand dollars?" Andrés shrugged, going back to looking through manuscripts as Martín pushed the Samaroli into his bag. 

"A-ha!" he grinned, pulling out a small booklet. Martín walked over to him and put his chin on Andrés' shoulder. 

"What's that?" 

"Rimbaud, a poet. He dedicated this copy to Verlaine. Now, that's a story. Verlaine was also a poet, had a wife and a son. But he fell in love with Rimbaud, who was ten years younger and a scandalmonger. Do you want to know how their relationship ended?" he asked, tilting his head towards Martín, who hummed to let him know he was interested. 

"Verlaine tried to shoot Rimbaud."

"Well, that's about as gay as they get," Martín said, making Andrés chuckle. He put the booklet in his pocket. 

"Remind me to show you their work, they were called the accursed poets, you'll love them. All done here?" 

"All done. Let's run."

  
_April 2006, San Francisco_

  
They rented a flat with a glorious rooftop deck, which gave them a nice view on the Golden Gate Bridge, now partially covered by the fog. The evening was chilly and they could still smell the rain in the air. 

Andrés stared at Martín, who was strumming on his guitar. Martín stared back, gave him a small smile and reached for his drink - he'd used the madly expensive Samaroli to prepare hot toddies, a profanity he'd commited with a shrug and a mischevious smirk.

Now, he was getting that pained expression in his eyes again and Andrés felt uneasy. Combined with the large sweater swallowing him up and the wind tearing at his hair, he looked small and vulnerable, and not in a good way. 

"Do you know any american music?" Andrés asked, pointing to the guitar, surprising himself with how careful he was to craft his tone into something warm and comforting. 

Martín blinked and cleared his throat. 

"I can play, but you know how shitty my english is," he muttered and rightened the guitar in his lap. Andrés saw him bite the end of his tongue in concentration as he began playing and he found it charming. 

Martín was playing _Hotel California_ , his fingers moving swiftly over the strings. Andrés leaned forward, listening. At some point, he smiled at him and began humming along. 

" _There she stood in the doorway_  
 _I heard the mission bell_  
 _And I was thinkin' to myself_  
 _'This could be heaven or this could be hell..._ "

Martín looked up at gave him a bright smile. Soon, Andrés was singing out loud, both of them getting up and swaying to the rythm of the guitar. 

When the song was drawing to an end, Martín was so moved by the music that he ignored his insecurity and joined in on the singing, his accent slipping on the words. 

" _Mirrors on the ceiling_  
 _The pink champagne on ice..._ " 

Andrés was smiling, even though Martín's clear voice was making his chest ache. Suddenly, his smile fell, when he realized exactly what that feeling was - longing. It wasn't affection or want, it was yearning. 

" _You can check out any time you like_  
 _But you can never leave..._ "

Martín didn't even notice that he finished the song alone. Andrés stood still and watched as his friend continued playing, his eyes closed, hair toussled by the wind and cheeks colored by the cold. 

He wanted to tear his feelings out of his chest.

  
_June 2006, Villaverde, Madrid_

  
"Sergio!" Martín grinned, throwing his full weight at Andrés' brother, probably to piss him off. But to Andrés' surprise, Sergio smiled and awkwardly hugged Martín back.

It seemed like even he wasn't immune.

Andrés forced himself to smile as he pulled a old, beautiful fountain pen out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

"A gift for you, _hermano_ ," he said and Sergio eyed the pen curiously.

" _Satheby's_?" he asked and when both of them nodded, he sighed. "I knew it had to be your job when I've read about it. Very, ah-... elegant."

Martín beamed with pride, hands on his hips, and Andrés averted his eyes.

  
His chest felt tight later, when Martín slipped the silver watch back onto his wrist before diving back into the box to pick up the jewels.

"You seem angry," Sergio muttered, standing next to him in the doorway. Andrés frowned and shrugged. "What's wrong?"

"Everything is absolutely _perfect_ , Sergio, I have no idea what are you talking about," he hissed in a low voice. Sergio grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the room and into the corridor. 

"You look murderous, brother. Is it about Martín? I don't care what he's done, I'm not into the idea of having to hide his body," Sergio seemed certain that this was a possibility, which normally would have made Andrés laugh. 

Instead, he gritted his teeth. 

"It's fine. He hasn't done anything."

  
_July 2006, Palermo_

  
" _But, truly, I’ve wept much! Every Dawn but saddens,_  
 _Every sun is bitter, every moon is rotten._  
 _Rancid love has bloated me with stupor that maddens,_  
 _O may my keel dissolve! May I sink to bottom!_ "

Martín walked into the room, book in his hand, reciting in a loud, booming voice. He threw himself dramatically onto the couch, next to Andrés who scowled, raising his coffee mug slightly to salvage it from Martín's momentum.

"What's gotten into you?" he raised his eyebrow at Martín who grinned.

"Rimbaud. You were right, I love it. Of course I do, I mean it speaks to me on so many levels... You know me so _well_ , Andrés," he said with a drawl. Andrés couldn't tell if he was teasing or if he was annoyed. Interesting.

He got to his feet and put away his coffee before turning to Martín, head tilted slightly to the side. Martín returned his gaze, sprawled out on the couch. Decadent, as always.

Curious, Andrés stepped closer and without a word, he slid his hand into the other man's hair. Martín's eyes fluttered and closed. Andrés closed his fingers into a fist, pulling lightly, but decidedly, inflicting just the right amount of pain. He moved Martín's head to one side; Martín obliged, not even opening his eyes. So Andrés pulled at his hair again to make him tilt his chin upwards.

"Look at me," he ordered and Martín did, his gaze definitely provocative now.

"What?" he asked, a half-smile on his face.

"Nothing," Andrés shrugged and let him go, making him blink in confusion. A victory. He turned away and reached for his hat.

"Where are you going?" Martín asked.

"Out."

"Why?"

"Because I want to."

Martín huffed, clearly offended. He bowed his head and glanced at Andrés from under his lashes.

"I take it I'm not invited?"

"You're not," he said and waited for a response as he stood by the door.

"Just try not to pick any _insufferable, cocksure, fucking STUPID_ bitches this time, will you?" he's heard Martín say, then something crashed - probably his favourite mug - and he smirked, walking out the door.

Now, that was the expected outcome. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short but sweet!
> 
> Just kidding. xx

  
_October 2006, Palermo_

Martín was losing his goddamn mind.

For a while, Andrés behaved almost like a lover. He's been affectionate, playful, intimate. And then, something switched. And now, Andrés would go out every night or travel to Florence for a few days at a time, always coming back with some girl attached to his arm.

At first, Martín was doing his best to respect his friend's apparent heterosexuality and he even tried to be civil with his conquests.

Until he snapped, of course.

"Maria-... Oh, that's not your name? Sorry, that must've been the one from last week. Clara, then? No? Whoops, forgive me! You look just like her!"

"Andrés, you have to go to the doctor! Camilla called! She has chlamydia!"

"This is the one you've chosen for tonight? Ah, Andrés, but I don't like brunettes, you know that..."

It didn't matter if the girls were from Spain or Italy; Martín's love for the country made him learn italian. And he was doing well enough to formulate offensive comments. 

He's seen Andrés get slapped in the face five times and have a drink thrown at him three times.

Luckily, his friend didn't react as badly as in Paris. Martín would get an occasional death glare, or he would get pinned against the wall and threatened, but nothing more than that.

The pinning against the walls was even quite exciting.

  
_January 2007, Florence_

  
Andrés moved to Florence and Martín stayed in Palermo, but they were visiting each other frequently, planning a heist. A nice one, too; they wanted to take over a train that was supposed to transport works of art from Uffizi to a temporary exhibition in Milan.

"Of course I know how to derail a train without completely destroying it, do you think I'm some kind of an idiot?" Martín grinned, scribbling in his notebook. Andrés stood over him, placing a hand on the back of his chair, sipping on coffee.

"How much time will we have?" he asked and Martín could already tell he was excited about the plan.

He checked the map once more.

"No more than forty minutes, so no time for excessive reflection, only action," he said, smirking. 

"Now that's what I love," Andrés grinned, reaching to ruffle Martín's hair. He leaned into the touch immediately, closing his eyes, but of course that was when Andrés' latest girlfriend decided to walk in.

" _Caro mio_ , we're going to be late!" her voice sang and Andrés stepped away from Martín to wrap his arms around her.

Martín's blood boiled and he turned around to snarl at her.

"Can't you see, _woman_ , that we're rather busy? Don't you have anything to do, paint your fucking nails, talk to your stupid little friends, whatever?!"

Isabella, Gianna, Angela or whatever her fucking name was turned bright red in anger, her lip trembling as she stomped her foot.

"That's it!" she screamed and Martín thought that the high sound was going to make his ears bleed. "I've tried being nice to you, but you're insufferable! I don't want to see you here!"

" _Cariño_ ," Andrés interrupted, his arm still wrapped around the girl's shoulders. "Please, calm down and forgive poor Martín, he's quite a neanderthal."

Martín huffed at that, annoyed, and Andrés' attention turned back to him.

"And you, my dear friend, be kind enough to fulfill my love's wish and get out."

He saw white at that, but didn't say anything. He just grabbed his jacket and stormed off, shutting the door loudly behind him.

  
_April 2007, Florence_

  
She was called Bianca, Martín remembered only because for the past three weeks, he's heard the name numerous times.

She was a short little thing with curly, dark hair and she was very gentle, soft, loving. Martín hated her with every fiber of his being.

He thought himself incapable of such hatred towards someone who, objectively speaking, hasn't done him any wrong, but there he was, his lips curling in disdain as she laughed with Andrés at the dinner table, over the absolutely delicious food she's made herself.

He drank the rest of wine from his glass and poured himself another one - he was losing count - as Bianca draped herself over Andrés and Andrés smiled, not smirked, not grinned, he gave her the _warmest smile_ and he whispered something straight into her ear and it made her shudder and giggle. Andrés murmured something else, the sound making Martín's skin crawl, and she pulled away, gasping, blushing, and honestly, it was too much-...

"Stop behaving like some stupid virgin, he must've fucked you countless times by now," he spat, not even looking up, his eyes glued to the table before him, hands balled into fists. "No reason to pretend otherwise, it's fucking annoying."

"Martín..." Andrés' voice was low and it was a warning, his tone already making it absolutely clear that he was in trouble and that he should shut up immediately.

He didn't.

"What are you, twenty-six? You're acting like a teenager, nervous because some brat pressed his sweaty hands all over you for the first time. That's pathetic, I've heard your moaning, you spread your legs every night and your cunt must be already stretched beyond _any reasonable_ -... "

Before he could finish, Andrés was grabbing him by the collar and lifting him up. Martín was sure he was about to be thrown into the pool or against the wall but instead, Andrés dragged him inside, upstairs and into his study where he let go of him.

Martín stumbled slightly, realizing how drunk he actually was. He straightened up and that's when Andrés hit him in the face with an open palm.

It wasn't a slap; a slap was something a woman would give to a man in a soap opera.

This was hard enough for Martín's head to snap to the side, for his whole body to lose balance so that he had to lean against the desk. Hard enough to draw blood because his lips crashed against his teeth.

"You're _disgusting_ , Martín."

Andrés' voice was cold and cruel, but Martín could barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. He kept his head down, watching drops of blood fall from his lips and splatter across the desk.

"To offend a woman like that... You're a sad parody of a man. Nothing but a caricature. A grotesque."

He dared to look up and see Andrés' scowl, the cold fury in his eyes, the way he looked down on Martín as if he was the filthiest thing on the planet.

Andrés' mouth twitched, then he turned around and left the room, left Martín who slid down onto the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest.

He waited for the tears to come.

This time, they didn't.

  
Two hours later, it was getting dark and Martín didn't move an inch. He was just staring into space, letting the alcohol evaporate from his veins. He reached to pick at the scab already forming on his lip and it started bleeding again. Looking down at his hand, he wondered how it's made Andrés feel. The blood, of course. Did he feel victorious? Or was he too angry to feel anything else?

"You should probably get up," he heard Bianca's quiet voice.

He got up to his feet, nodding, swaying a bit. Bianca was leaning against the doorframe, slightly wary, but calm. She frowned, taking a good look at his face.

"Do you want some ice for that? Looks really nasty."

Martín shook his head. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"I didn't want for him to hurt you like that, you know."

"I know you didn't," he said, barely a soft whisper. "I'm gonna go catch a train or something."

He moved to walk out, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. He looked at her, frowning slightly.

"Stay," she said. "It's late, it's a long road to Palermo. Come on."

She took his hand, her own small and cold, soothing. She led him to the guest bedroom he stayed in and he followed her. Mindlessly, he let her sit him down on the bed and accepted a glass of water when she handed to him.

When Bianca turned to leave, he felt a wave of panic catch him by the throat. The glass broke as he dropped it to the floor, surging forward, desperate, to grab the sleeve of Bianca's long dress.

He wanted to tell her so many things: that he understood why Andrés loved her, that he was thankful for letting him stay after he'd said all those awful words, that it wasn't her fault, not really, that it was him who was hopeless, disgusting, unlovable.

The only thing that escaped his lips was a quiet, pathetic whine.

She stared at him for a moment, surprised. Martín bowed his head, not willing to look her in the eyes. Then, he felt her close the distance and wrap him up in a hug.

Martín has never known what it felt like to be cared for by a woman. He's only known his mother's disdain, Anne-Marie's hatred. He's had something bordering on friendship with Lucía and some other girls from Argentina, but he's never let them in. He's never had a sister or a cousin or an aunt. Therefore, he's never known how good, loving, gentle and patient women could be, how they could be strong in a quiet, open way, much braver in their softness than any man.

They ended up like this: Bianca sitting on the bed with her legs off to the side, Martín curled up next to her, sobbing as she craddled his head in her lap. She didn't ask him anything, didn't speak, and he thought his crying would never end. At some point, he wrapped his arms around her middle as if he was trying to disappear in the folds of her dress. His hysteria reached a breaking point; he was shaking violently, howling like a wounded animal, the sounds muffled but still tearing through the silence of the house. Bianca didn't move an inch, not trying to soothe him with any words, just holding him as close as she could and rocking slightly back and forth. 

It felt like hours have passed until he's finally exhausted himself. 

He stared up at her, his whole body feeling numb and heavy.

"I'm sorry," he sniffled, still teary-eyed, when he found his voice. "I'm no connaisseur, but I'm sure your pussy is great."

She burst out laughing, swatting him lightly on the forehead. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am Depressed™️

  
_April 2007, Florence_

  
If there were things Andrés was not very skilled at, they were the following: mathematics, figure skating and emotions.

Not that he was completely ignorant. Emotions were like languages. Andrés spoke spanish, italian, german, french, russian and english. He was also fluent in pride, anger, lust and amusement. There were people who have taught him happiness and love.

Martín was teaching him sadness.

He sat by the open window, staring into the night sky, and listened to the sobs coming from downstairs. 

At first, he thought of it as if it was a form of art, a kind of music. It was touching, without a doubt. Regular, measured by shaky breaths. Andrés leaned against the window frame and closed his eyes, letting the sounds strike the very same strings in his own soul. They were rarely used, but just like when learning a new language, his heart began to repeat what it's heard, clumsily at first. Then, it became steadier. He felt pain claw at his chest, oh, there it was, like a dull blade. He's known it before. 

Then, the music changed. 

When Andrés was a kid, his father has taken him for a hunt with his friends, deep into the woods. He's told him to shoot a doe. Andrés was ten years old and the rifle was very big. By accident, he's fired at a hunting dog, which then lay on its side, wounded, yelping and howling, until it died. 

That's what Martín sounded like.

Andrés listened intently, but soon, it became too much. He felt his body shake and his heart was beating so hard it seemed to be tearing itself out of his ribcage. It was unbearable, so he closed the window and paced the room to try and calm down, but he could still hear the cries. 

Finally, he crawled into the bed, put a pillow over his head and screwed his eyes shut. 

  
He didn't hear Bianca walk into the room and change into her nightdress, he only felt her weight on the bed and her cold hands as she pressed them against his back. 

He turned around, moving the pillow to the side. She was breathtakingly beautiful as always, but her brow was creased with worry. 

He leaned in and wrapped his arms around her, and she reached up to card her fingers through his hair. 

"What is it?" she asked quietly. "You feel bad about what you've done?" 

"I... guess," he muttered, frowning. "But he deserved it. I had to defend your honor."

"Andrés, this is not the eighteenth century anymore. I'm an adult, I'm not about to cry because some asshole threw a few rude words at me."

He smiled; Bianca was a very strong woman, even if she didn't seem like it. He closed his eyes and before he knew it, he was asleep, dreaming of dying dogs.

  
Regret was a shade of sadness, a mixture of guilt, shame and compassion, a sour aftertaste of anger. It crawled into Andrés' bones and sat there as he moved around the house in the morning, preparing breakfast. 

They ate outside, him and Bianca, even through the morning was cloudy and cold. 

"Morning," Martín walked out onto the terrace with his head bowed and sat down at the other side of the table, wrapping his sweater more tightly around himself. He was shivering, clearly hungover. He wore a different shade of sadness - he looked completely drained. Empty.

"I'll make some fresh coffee," Bianca said, getting up and glancing at Andrés before disappearing inside the house.

He got up and walked over to Martín, took a seat next to him and leaned against the table, turning towards the other man. Martín didn't raise his gaze and Andrés took his time looking at his face, at the small scabbing on his bitten lips, at the purplish bruise on his cheek, stark against his pale skin, at the redness around his eyes and the dark circles underneath. 

Then, Martín closed his eyes and pressed his lips together as if he was expecting a blow.

To Andrés, this small movement was like taking a hit himself. 

He felt a shiver run down his spine and his eyes, shockingly, welled up with tears. Slowly, carefully, he reached up to put his hand on Martín's back, guiding him to lean against his shoulder, putting his other hand to the back of his head, stroking with his thumb then stilling, both of them rigid and afraid.

Still, Andrés held him and he hoped Martín could hear every beat of his heart saying the same thing, over and over again.

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

  
_May 2007, Palermo_

  
Sadness had different shades, changing over time, like the bruise on Martín's cheek.

When Andrés arrived in Palermo at the beggining of May, the bruise was a sickly yellow and the apartment was clean. There was only one bottle of whisky on the table and it wasn't even empty. More than that, there was a glass next to it which suggested that Martín drank like a regular human being instead of chugging from the bottle.

His friend welcomed him with open arms, put a Julio Iglesias vinyl into the recorder and made coffee. Andrés sat on the sofa and Martín on the counter. He grinned at Andrés' questioning gaze.

"I'm gay, I have a strong instinct to occupy alternative spaces."

Andrés chuckled at that and they talked for a while, sipping on coffee. Later, they went to the market, bought fresh fruits, took the long way back to the apartment.

"Come on, I haven't shown you this yet," Martín said, leading Andrés into the attic and then through the window, onto the roof. They sat on the tiles, watching the sun set over the city, eating oranges, their sweet scent filling the air, their juice sticky on their fingers.

"Next time, you should bring Bianca, too."

Sadness had different shades and sometimes, it would hide in the crease of a smile.

  
_December 2007, Tiffany's, Rome_

  
They walked through a jewelry store they were about to rob in a few days and Andrés stopped to stare at the rings.

"This one," Martín said, right next to Andrés' ear, pointing at a beautiful gold ring with a yellow diamond.

It was very pretty, but Andrés' gaze dropped to the watch on Martín's wrist.

  
_August 2008, Florence_

  
"Sergio, no, listen to me! I'm getting-..." Andrés groaned into the phone as his brother once again began his tirade about the sanctity of marriage, Andrés' impulsiveness and his apparent lack of taste. He gasped, offended.

" _Hermano_! How dare you make such accusations? I have impeccable-..." before he could finish, he felt a warm hand pull the cell away from him.

Martín sat on the armrest of the sofa and put the phone to his ear.

"Sergio! It's me. Listen, we're basically brothers, let me-... No, we are, don't fight me on this. Look, I know, I really know. Yes, a nightmare. Yes, I remember... No, no, she's different. You'll like her. I promise you."

He smiled at Andrés.

"Yes. Yeah. Oh my God, I can hear you flicking those glasses up your nose, I swear, I'm going to flick them right off your face!"

  
_September 2008, Livorno_

  
Andrés always dreamed of a wedding reception on a beach in Italy. Well, he had already gotten married in a church, on a boat, under the Eiffel Tower... There weren't many locations left on the list.

Still, this wedding was probably the most beautiful. The bride definitely was the prettiest, her dark hair and olive skin contrasting with the white of the dress.

Andrés really did love her. Out of all the women he'd been with, she was the most patient, forgiving, gentle. She was angelic like Gabriela, but not as serious, lovable like Lucía, but not as childish, she could be tough like Anne-Marie, but without the additional crazy factor. She got bonus points for being smart; even Martín liked to talk to her.

An orchestra played an instrumental version of _Hymne à l'amour_ for their first dance and it was perfect.

The champagne was pouring like rain, the food was delicious, Bianca was already forcing Sergio to dance with her, Andrés and Martín were laughing at them and it was perfect.

There were torches along the beach so the party could carry on after dusk.

At some point, Andrés lay on the sand with Martín and Sergio, close enough to the sea so that every wave that came washed at their bare feet. They stayed like that, gazing at the stars, not exchanging a single word, until Bianca came over to pull Andrés to his feet.

"Come on, love, the guests are demanding another toast from the groom," she said with a bright smile and he hugged her with one arm, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

It was late and some people were passed out by the time Martín's pulled out his guitar. Surprisingly, he was almost sober. He sat on a stool by the bar, tuning the instrument, and then looked up as if to ask permission from Andrés. He nodded, motioning towards the staff to let them know they should turn down the music that's been playing from the speakers for the last four hours.

Martín strummed at his guitar and let out a breath. Then, he began playing and everyone recognized the tune immediately. Then, Martín sang.

This time, while he stood with Bianca at his side, looking at his friend, the thought of dancing didn't even cross Andrés' mind. In fact, his brain seemed to be completely void of any rational thoughts.

_"Besame,_  
_Besame mucho..."_

Andrés heard Martín's singing many times, drunk or sober, but he's never heard this much emotion in it. He's never heard this much emotion in his cries, either. 

_"Como si fuera ésta noche_  
_La última vez..."_

It wasn't even like Martín was doing anything spectacular for it to sound like that. Like always, his voice was strong and clear, he wasn't changing the well-known melody. But he was singing so softly, so tenderly, so... desperately.

_"Besame, besame mucho_  
_Que tengo miedo a perderte_  
_Perderte después..."_

Sadness had many different shades. Sometimes, it was violent and painful. Sometimes, it was deep-rooted and quiet. It could be hidden in a tear, a smile, a gesture. 

Staring at Martín, listening to his voice, looking into his eyes, Andrés finally understood what was hidden behind his gaze every time he looked at him in silence. 

Sometimes, sadness and love melted together. They sank so much into each other that it was impossible to tell them apart. 


	13. Chapter 13

_January 2009, Palermo_

  
Seven years. They've met seven years ago, today.

Martín had a crush on Andrés since the beginning. Andrés was twenty-nine then, he was handsome, well-dressed and had an air of authority, so it was no surprise that Martín's fucked up, daddy-issues infused brain made him want to chase after that man.

He had not expected for that chase to lead him through numerous countries, countless crimes, many heartbreaks, three marriages all the way to being a lovesick gay sidekick, but there he was.

He's gotten used to it, though. After that terrible ordeal with Bianca, he's learned that Andrés would never be his. He's also learned that if he didn't want to lose him, he had to be okay with that.

So he was. If he had to be satisfied with scraps, so be it. Andrés was more important to him than his own feelings.

He poured some more tequila into his glass. He tried not to drink too much nowadays, but an anniversary was a special occasion.

_June 2010, Mallorca_

"Are you okay?" Bianca tilted her head to the side, looking at him. 

They have invited him for a getaway, a cruise on Andrés' yacht. For the past week, they've been sipping on prosecco, eating strawberries and sunbathing like spoiled bastards. 

Martín and Bianca were on the deck, catching the last glimpses of the sun; she was sitting up with her arms stretched back, looking like a model in her chic swimsuit and shades, her hair pulled up into a bun. Martín was lying flat on his stomach, head turned to the side. You know, like a dead fish. Classy. 

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm not your charity case," he said and she laughed, throwing her head back. 

"Stop it. I really want to know."

Martín sighed and closed his eyes. She did want to know, he knew that. He had to constantly remind himself that Bianca was not the enemy and that she even cared about him. 

"I'm okay," he managed. He really was. It's been more than three years since Andrés got together with Bianca, an absolute record, and he was getting used to the idea of hanging out with them for another fifteen years or so and then blowing his fucking head off.

"Enjoying my yacht, Martín?" Andrés said, walking out onto the deck, smug as per usual. "What do you think about it?" 

"I think..." he began, taking off his glasses and moving to sit up and look at Andrés properly, because he was beautiful in his swimming shorts and an unbuttoned, white shirt. "That you should ask for my opinion the next time you want to buy something like that. It's shitty and since you never skimp on anything, I'm guessing it must have been terribly overpriced."

Bianca snorted at that and before he knew it, Martín had a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him up, without a doubt meaning to throw him into the water. The thing was, Martín has been eating better lately and he wasn't so easy to move around anymore. He screamed, wrestled, and when he was falling into the water he grabbed Andrés and pulled him in so that they both ended up off the yacht. They both sputtered and kicked around in the water, trying to hold onto the other one. 

"Boys!" Bianca yelled, laughing, and she threw them a huge, aggressively pink air mattress they kept on the deck. 

They glanced at each other and immediately threw themselves at the mattress. Martín was first to reach it and he tried to climb onto the blessed vinyl haven, but then he felt Andrés' arms around his thighs and he was pulled back into the water. When he emerged, Andrés was sitting on the mattress, victory painted all over his face. Without a second thought, Martín pushed him off. 

They were yelling and wrestling like that for a good while, and every time one of them ended up on top of the mattress, the other would push him off or pull him down. 

Finally, they exhausted themselves. They lay side to side on the mattress, breathing heavily, looking up into the sky, painted by the sunset in pink, purple and orange hues. The air was warm and heavy like Martín's eyelids and he could taste salt at the tip of his tongue.

Slowly, he turned his head to the side to look at Andrés and he found him looking right back. He reached to push the wet strands of hair sticking to the side of his face with the back of his hand. Andrés let out a huff of air as he smiled, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

Martín felt him gently poking his finger at his side. 

"Looking good over there," Andrés said. "At some point I thought I was going to have to start feeding you."

"Ahhh," Martín grinned, closing his eyes. "I should've let you do that, then." 

His smile widened when he heard Andrés' laugh. 

_December 2011, Palermo_

Martín really was okay. There's a kind of sadness that just sleeps, wrapped up in your veins, rarely showing its miserable head to bite you.

He would still spend a lot of time with Andrés, traveling together, or staying in Florence with him and Bianca. They would spend weeks in each other's company and then weeks apart, and it was okay. Martín was slowly creating a life for himself in Palermo, learning its rythm - wake up, eat something, take a walk, read something, eat something, have a nap, work on another plan, write to Andrés, eat something, don't drink yourself to death, go to sleep. On weekends, he would go out, find a man, let him fuck him senseless, throw him out. Sometimes, he would call Sergio, tease him for a bit. Sometimes, he would go out, talk to people, play poker in bars or dance in the streets. Sometimes, he would sit on the roof, looking down at the beautiful city, strumming on the guitar.

Winter was definitely the worst, though, often rainy, even if it wasn't really cold. Martín would spend most of his evenings at home, reading, nursing a glass of wine, falling asleep early only to wake up at some ungodly hour in the morning and maunder through the apartment.

That night wasn't supposed to be any different, but then Martín woke up in the middle of it. Someone was pounding at his door. He groaned, getting up, and grabbed the gun he kept in a drawer by his bed (Andrés gave it to him - _We're thieves, Martín, some people won't like us_ ).

He was mildly surprised to see Andrés on his doorstep. He was more surprised to smell alcohol on him. He was really surprised when Andrés walked in, shut the door behind him, locked it, took the gun away from him, put it away-

And then he grabbed Martín by the collar of his t-shirt and began dragging him unceremoniously towards the bedroom. 

"Andrés, what-... _What have I done this time_ , I don't-... Andrés!" he yelped as the other man pushed him onto the bed he's just left two minutes before. "Andr-... _Jesus Christ_!" 

Andrés leaned over him and there was something wild in his eyes, some sick anger that made Martín freeze on the spot. The man's hands reached for his neck and his breath hitched in an overwhelming panic. _Not again_ -... 

But the hands pressed only a little, thumbs running over the line of his jaw, then moving downwards, over his collarbones, under the shirt, onto his shoulders, pushing him into the mattress. 

Martín stared, shocked, speechless, shaking under the touch.

Andrés' hands moved away for a moment and Martín took the chance to catch a gulp of air. A second later, he let out a completely undignified squeak as he felt the palms slip under his shirt once again, this time from below, rubbing against his stomach and then resting against his ribs. Andrés was panting, his eyes wide. 

"Andrés..." Martín found his voice again, weak and way too high. 

Fingernails scrapped against his skin as Andrés balled his hands into fists. Martín hissed, but he swallowed down the discomfort and slowly moved his hand to put it over Andrés'. Then, carefully, as if he was in a cage with a lion, he pulled himself up into a sitting position.

"Bianca?" he asked quietly. Andrés nodded, looking away, his lips pressed into a thin line. Martín scooted closer to him, without another word, and closed his fingers around the collar of his coat to pull it off of him. Andrés let him, moving his arms out of the sleeves. Martín folded the coat and put it away. Then, he slipped to the floor, to his knees, and untied Andrés' shoelaces. Andrés stared at him, his expression closed off, unreadable. Martín took off his shoes.

"There are some clothes and towels in the closet in the guest bedroom," he said quietly, getting back up. He carded his fingers through Andrés' hair.

"She wanted kids. I didn't," Andrés explained in a hoarse voice. Martín nodded. He grabbed Andrés' hands, pulled him up to his feet, reached for his tie. He loosened the knot, untied it slowly, slipped the fabric off in a swift movement and placed it next to the coat. 

"Go, take a shower," he murmured. "Then, go to sleep or come and get me, we can have a drink or whatever."

He moved to pull away.

"Martín-..."

"Mm?"

Andrés stared at the wall. Then, he slowly shook his head.

"Nevermind. Nothing."

When Andrés disappeared in the bathroom, Martín lay back down, turning towards the wall. He hugged the pillow and tried to sleep, but his skin tingled and his thoughts were racing.

The wooden floors creaked as Andrés stepped back into the room half an hour later. He didn't call for Martín to get back up, though; instead, he slipped under the covers, pressed himself to Martín's back and wrapped his arms tightly around him. 

One of his hands was clawing at Martín's arm, pulling and twisting the material of his shirt, like a cat's paw. Martín sighed quietly and took a hold of his hand, lacing their fingers together and pressing them to his cheek.

Falling asleep, he could feel the warmth of Andrés' breath against the nape of his neck. 

When he woke up in the morning, there was an additional blanket over him and Andrés was nowhere to be seen.

_February 2012, Palermo_

Martín sat on the roof, a croissant in his mouth, cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Carefully, he placed the steaming mug in-between his knees, took a bite out of the pastry and opened the paper, chewing as his gaze ran over the informations.

He choked when he saw Andrés' face smiling smugly from a mugshot at the bottom of the page.

"Fuck," he groaned as his mug dropped and rolled down the roof. His eyes skimmed over the article - captured in Grenoble, with _four hundred thirty fucking four diamonds_ stolen from different jewelry stores along the Champs-Élysées. Extradition to Spain due to the suspitions of document forging. Sentenced to-...

Three years in Soto del Real.

Martín closed his eyes. Slowly, shakily, he pulled himself to his feet, balancing on the roof, before he took a deep breath and yelled from the top of his lungs.

" _HIJO DE PUTA_!" 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are in 2k12 and you know what that meaaaanssss

_October 2012, Soto del Real_

Soto del Real was as luxurious as a prison could get. It was called the VIP prison, with its swimming pool, two squash courts and multiple gyms.

Still, Andrés hated it there. He was like an animal trapped in a cage; an alpha male, for sure, untouchable since he stabbed one of the inmates with an extremely well-sharpened pencil, terrifying because he wanted to be, but sill a trapped animal.

He would read a lot, exercise and sketch (using coal since he wasn't allowed to have pencils anymore), but he ignored other inmates with careful disdain, not letting himself become a part of their rubble. The upside was that he did not turn into a regular prisonier, that his mentality stayed the same (superior, that is). The downside was... He had an awful lot of time to think.

Think about Bianca and how hurt he was to find out that she was like other women, never satisfied with the affection of a man, needing children to feel complete.

Think about Martín, the way he shook under his hands, the way his mouth would part as he panted, wet and so inviting. The way he stared at Andrés, open and so _obscenely_ vulnerable, even after everything that Andrés has done to him already.

Think about how just before his breakup, he found out that he would probably never make it to his fifties, the same disease that ate away at his mother now rotting inside him as well.

At least he bribed one of the guards to keep smuggling him Retroxil. 

Still, he had to spend three of his remaining years in lock up instead of living his life to the fullest.

Andrés woke up and he saw a figure leaning over him, and he wanted to speak but then there was a hand dressed in a black leather glove pressing against his mouth, and he felt a spike of adrenaline which then turned into mirth when he recognized the wide smile of the person above him. 

Martín. 

He was so happy to see his friend in such a lonely place that he felt like crying. 

"Shh," Martín pulled his hand away and moved back a little. He was dressed as a guard. Andrés looked at his cellmate, some awful pervert, but he was asleep, a needle sticking from his arm. 

"We couldn't have him waking up with a scream, now could we?" Martín grinned, a wicked and dangerous thing. "Gave him a somnifacient."

Andrés grinned right back at him and got up. Martín pulled out another guard suit from under his own and threw it to Andrés, who quickly changed into the costume. 

Martín looked down at his watch. A minute later, an explosion resonated in the distance. 

"Go," Martín said and they both left the cell. Looking around all the time, he led Andrés down the stairs, through the absolute chaos of howling alarms and screams of the guards and the inmates. They reached the door leading to the basement.

" _DE FONOLLOSA!"_

_Fuck_ , Andrés thought when they turned around to see his least favourite prison guard, Hernández, running towards them, reaching for his gun. 

_Oh_ , Andrés thought when Martín shot the man in the leg without blinking an eye. He grabbed Andrés' hand and pulled him into the basement. There was a hole in the wall, leading to a small tunnel. They hopped inside and there was... a bicycle. Martín jumped onto it and gestured to the rear rack.

"You have to be kidding me," Andrés deadpanned.

"Get your ass on the rack or I'm leaving without you," Martín barked and Andrés had no choice but to climb onto the bike. He yelped as they began riding down the tunnel, jumping over the uneven soil, Martín racing like his own life depended on it. It turned out that it did, because he reached into his pocket, pressed on a controller and another explosion shook the ground.

"Have you lost your mind?!" Andrés yelled, holding on for dear life. "You're blowing it up as we go?!"

"Fuck yeah I am!" Martín screamed, laughing, unhinged. Andrés couldn't help but laugh as well, delighted by the madness. 

At the end of the tunnel, they jumped into a car and drove off, tires screeching. 

At a safe distance from Soto de Real, on the side of a country road, a different car was waiting for them, left there by Martín. There was water, food and a change of clothes inside. Martín put on a black hoodie and a pair of jeans, but he was merciful enough to get Andrés creased trousers and a turtleneck. 

"Ah, Martín, you're so lost without me. You look positively homeless." 

Martín was just finishing splashing petrol all over the first car they used. He dropped a match onto it and ran before the car exploded. Then, fire burning behind his back, he stared at Andrés, clearly furious. Beautiful. 

"Homeless? Me? Wasn't it you who had to spend eight months in prison because you were dumb enough to walk around stores on Champs-Élysées with a fucking gun?!" he snapped and Andrés chuckled, shaking his head. 

"I had to blow off some steam."

"Blow off-... You stole four hundred thrity four fucking diamonds without me! And then you LOST them. If I was there, we would NEVER have gotten caught!"

Andrés narrowed his eyes at that. 

"You seem to have forgotten who's taught you everything you know about theft," he hissed.

" _What?!_ " Martín yelled, spreading out his arms. "I'm a fucking engineer, Andrés, I think I bring something to the table! I'm pulling you out of prison, for fuck's sake, that YOU have gotten yourself into, and you're what, back on your bullshit with all the fucking comments-..." 

Andrés stepped closer to Martín and grabbed him by the chin, making him look into his eyes. 

"That's it," he drawled. "Now, you're just being a brat and I'm about to be angry. Do you want me to get angry, hm?"

Martín pursed his lips, looking away. 

"... no."

"Good," Andrés said. He couldn't help himself; he moved his hand to Martín's cheek, stroking with his thumb, watching as Martín's eyes fluttered when he leaned into the touch, helpless and pliant. 

_October 2012, Cascais, Lisbon_

After seven hours of driving through the night, they arrived in front of a small house at the coast of the Atlantic. 

"Sergio!" Andrés grinned, spreading his arms, expecting to get a hug. 

Decked was what he got instead, Sergio knocking into him with his whole body weight, grabbing him by the front of his turtleneck and shaking as they've fallen to the ground. 

"You're a fucking idiot!" he yelled, Martín cackling somewhere above them. "What were you thinking?! You've put all of us in danger, you reckless, selfish asshole!" 

"I'm happy to see you, too." 

When Sergio was done screaming at him and they finally hugged it out, Andrés took a quick shower. After he got out of the bathroom, he followed Martín and Sergio's voices into the kitchen where he stopped in the doorway, surprised at the picture before him. Martín was sitting on the counter, a bottle of beer in his hand and he was talking quietly to Sergio, who was seated on a chair right next to him, arms folded on the counter, touching the side of Martín's leg. They seemed comfortable and at ease around each other, way more than before, and Andrés watched with stupour as Martín ruffled Sergio's hair. 

Now, Andrés was very happy that the two of them were finally getting along. Nevertheless, he was the person supposed to be getting all of Martín's attention, at all times. That wasn't even a question.

So, he marched into the kitchen, into Martín's space, and he draped himself all over his lap. Without as much as a startle, Martín put his hand on his back, the other finding its way into Andrés' hair. He sighed, closing his eyes. Sometimes, he thought that Martín's touch was better than a woman's. It felt safer, warmer, more stable. He turned his head to the side and opened his eyes to look at Sergio, whose face was an epitome of confusion.

"Were you the one behind the plan?" he asked his brother and raised his eyebrows when Sergio shook his head.

"Martín orchestrated the whole thing. I only brought him the supplies he needed," he said, flicking his glasses up his nose, shrugging. 

"Like the bike?"

"Will you stop with the fucking bike? Did you want me to bring a loud-ass motorcycle in there or would you have me build a metro station for you?" Martín snapped, but his fingers were still massaging Andrés' scalp. Andrés grinned and nuzzled against the fabric of Martín's jeans.

Sergio was speechless at this point.

When the evening came, their positions were reversed. A Mercedes Sosa record was playing softly and Andrés was seated on the couch, reading, with Martín curled up beside him, his deep, regular breathing indicating that he was fast asleep. One song ended and the next one began. Andrés twitched when he recognized the tune; it was the one Martín played at his wedding with Lucía, a soft, bittersweet melody about life, about the passage of time, about love.

Andrés loved Martín. In fact, he loved him so much it scared him.

He put his book down and looked down at the sleeping man, his throat tightening when he remembered the Martín he's met in Buenos Aires - ten years younger, barely more than a scrawny kid. He ran his hand gently through Martín's hair, once messy, now shorter, more elegant.

At first, Martín was his toy; a curious little thing, but no more than that. Then, affection crept in and just as he'd once told Sergio, Martín became his pet, a wild animal that could be tamed by Andrés and Andrés only. Now, he became a part of him. He was his soulmate, his other-... Not even his other half, no. They were so intertwined that is was becoming impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.

He moved his hand downwards, tracing Martín's forehead with his thumb, then moved onto his eyelids, the side of his nose, his bottom lip, gently, slowly, savouring every touch, making them feather-light as if he was touching the most precious thing in the entire world. 

He frowned with worry, with regret, realizing how grand his mistake had been. He wanted to play with Martín, to dance on the thin line between friendship and romance, he wanted to test, to experiment, he was so sure that it was leading to the inevitable anyway, so he wanted to stretch out the wait. It turned out, and it shouldn't have come as a surprise, that the only inevitable thing was death and now it was looming over Andrés. He couldn't do that to Martín, couldn't promise him everything if he knew it was rotten.

"Martín," he whispered, leaning in a little. Martín stirred and opened his eyes slowly, looking up at him. 

"Mmm?" 

"Sing me something."

He had to leave him behind. 


	15. Chapter 15

_November 2012, Cascais, Lisbon_

Something was off with Andrés.

He seemed... absent. He would joke around with Martín and Sergio, cook delicious food for the three of them, talk through heist ideas, but Martín could see the way his eyes would get foggy from time to time, how he would fall silent and wouldn't listen to them sometimes. More than that, Martín caught Andrés staring at him a few times with the strangest look in his eyes.

One night, he decided to find out what was going on. He couldn't sleep anyway, so he got up and padded to Andrés' room, trying to be quiet. Sergio was an anxious mess half of the time and he needed his sleep. There was a thunderstorm raging outside and Martín felt like a frightened child as he slipped through the door.

When a lightening flashed, Martín saw the outline of Andrés' silhouette. He was lying on his side, facing the wall, looking strangely small. It was bizzare, Martín thought, that he was allowed to see him like that. That more than once, they have slept together, sharing their bodies' warmth, that their breaths mixed together even though they have never kissed. With Andrés, Martín had a kind of intimacy he'd never experienced with anyone he's fucked. He wondered if that was Andrés' way of manipulating him; he must've been aware of Martín's desperate love for him, so it was possible that he wanted to give him something to hold on to, so that Martín wouldn't leave. And of course, that was enough. Whatever he was willing to give him was enough.

He was only slightly worried that Andrés would consider this an invasion of privacy and murder him as he slid into the bed, under the cover. He gathered his bravado and leaned forward to rest against the other man's back, not daring to wrap his arms around him.

"Martín?" Andrés murmured and his sleepy voice was the best thing Martín's ever heard.

"Yeah," he breathed. Andrés turned onto his back, stretching his arm out to put it over Martín's shoulders and pull him closer.

"You seem worried, lately," Martín whispered, closing his eyes and pressing himself against Andrés' side. "What's wrong?" 

"It's nothing. I miss Bianca, that's all. We've been together for awhile, after all," he muttered. "Why did you come to me? Were you afraid of the storm?"

Martín shook his head, snorting. 

"Say," Andrés' hand found the nape of his neck and he scratched at it lightly. "Have you ever wondered what it feels like to be stuck by a lightning?"

"No."

Andrés chuckled.

_December 2012, Cascais, Lisbon_

Sergio has gone out to get them _pastéis de nata_ since Andrés was tormenting him about it and Martín was in the living room, listening to carols as he decorated a small Christmas tree. It felt funny to spend the holidays like that, just thre three of them, almost like a family. Well, Andrés and Sergio were family, after all. And Martín was... He was there. 

"I need to talk to you," Andrés said, stepping into the room, his voice devoid of any emotion. 

Martín looked up at him. 

"And I need to talk to you," he replied instantly, straightening up. "Can I go first?" 

He saw Andrés blink in mild surprise, but then he shrugged and gestured for him to go on. Martín smiled softly, turning back to the tree. He put up a nice blown glass ornament with golden glitter inside of it. He stared at the bulb, nudging it with the tip of his finger. 

"Tell me," he said quietly, barely hiding the excitement in his voice. "What do you know about the gold reserve in _Banco del España_?" 

Whatever Andrés wanted to say to him, it was forgotten the moment those words left Martín's mouth. 

_March 2013, Palermo_

"I found it," Andrés declared when he came back from his travel, throwing his hat onto the couch with flair and grinning at Martín. "I found it and it's perfect, near my lovely Florence. Also, I may have already bought it, so better start packing."

Martín frowned at him, only half-awake and nursing a cup of coffee. He leaned back against the couch, mirroring Andrés' smile. 

"Of course."

_April 2013, Tuscany_

"Wow," Martín breathed, looking around the place. "You are... a genius."

"I am," Andrés said, his words echoing in the chapel, empty safe for the recorder standing on a chair in the corner. "And you are, too. And here... we're going to create our masterpiece."

"Yeah," Martín nodded along. "Did you figure out how to get in?"

"Yes," Andrés walked over to the recorder and chose a vinyl- the Gypsy Kings' _Bamboléo_. He straightened up as the music began playing and turned around to face Martín, a wide grin on his face. "Chaos."

"Chaos?" Martín couldn't help but grin right back at him. Andrés began moving to the rythm, clearly enjoying himself as he stepped closer to Martín.

"Yes, my dear, my sweet friend," he purred. " _Pure chaos_."

He grabbed his hands and spun him around. Soon, Martín was laughing too.

_December 2013, Tuscany_

"And that's how," Martín slapped the chalkboard covered in equations and drawings, panting, grinning like a madman, his whole body on fire. "That's how you melt ninety tones of gold, Andrés."

Andres made a sound that could be described as a squeak, jumping to his feet, grabbing Martín by the shoulders and shaking him.

"I'm going to call Sergio, you clever, clever thing!" he sang. His eyes were shining, almost tearful, and Martín wanted to stop time.

_May 2014, Florence_

"Andrés is getting married. Again. And you are smoking. What the fuck?" Sergio asked, staring at Martín.

They were sitting in a bar in the city, having decided to get away from the monastery since Andrés and Tatiana seemed to be in need of some... _privacy_.

Martín took a long drag on his cigarette and then exhaled, slowly, letting the smoke slide over his tongue and out of his lips.

"Yeah. Whatever," he shrugged. Lately, his relationship with Sergio was getting difficult again. The man was wary of Martín and he hated the idea of melting gold. So Martín hated him right back. Simple as that.

"What do you mean, _whatever_? He's-..." Sergio seemed to have bitten his tongue and Martín smirked at that, well-aware what Sergio wanted to say. "Isn't it driving you mad? He's told her everything about the plan."

The way Sergio spat the words out made Martín remember his own reaction. He'd smiled, nodded and then he had gone and smashed his guitar against the stone walls of his room. But he was all good and calm now. 

"Frankly, I don't care."

"Since when?!"

"Since I have fucking stopped caring. I don't care at all whether he's married or not, whether he tells her or not, whether he fucks Tatiana or anyone else, the only thing that matters is the plan. Nothing else. Do you understand?" he looked at Sergio, close to shaking with determination. "I don't care about anything else."

Suddenly, there was a glimmer of understanding in Sergio's eyes.

_September 2014, Tuscany_

After the wedding, like a stray cat, Martín found himself on the roof of the monastery, looking down at the river, a bottle of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He expected for everyone to leave him be and to carry on with the party. He did not expect to see Tatiana come out of the trap door and sit next to him, careful not to rip her dress. 

"Hey," she said. "What are you doing here?" 

"Hey. Hiding from the monks, your husband and his brother. Want a drag?" 

"Since I'm going to smell of nicotine anyway, why not," she said and reached for the cigarette. She took a drag and gave it back, and Martín did respect the fact that she didn't abuse his generosity. They were quiet for a moment before Tatiana spoke. 

"I wanted to thank you," she said. "For being nice to me." 

Martín choked on the smoke, coughed and took a gulp of wine. 

"What?" 

"You're nice. I know Andrés can be a little... ostentacious with his affections. Some people may find it very annoying. Like Sergio. I have a feeling that he hates my guts. And I know I'm not Andrés' first wife, so for you to make me feel welcome... That's very kind of you, Martín."

"Fuck off," Martín rolled his eyes and she laughed. He glanced at her, a young, playful thing, a pianist, a thief, and he gave her a half-smile. 

"Go back down. I'll be there in a minute," he said. When she left, he stared at the beautiful landscape before him and pulled out another cigarette. 

He's locked his sadness away, but there were certain ocassions where he would let it out and breathe it in. Like weddings, for example.

_October 2014, Tuscany_

The evening was very pleasant. Martín was sitting by the desk, scribbling in his notebook, working on their non-existent escape plan. Every problem was an equation, and every equation had a solution, and Martín was going to find it. 

The lights were dimmed, _Ni Sueño ni Amor sin Ti_ was playing softly and Andrés was walking around the chapel, picking out an outfit. Martín was relaxed. Calm. Content. 

" _Pude comprender después de mi sufrir_

_Que no hay otro querer_

_Que se parezca a ti..._ " 

"How do I look?" Andrés asked and Martín looked up from his notes to see his friend in a white button-up, an elegant vest and a marron suit jacket. 

Martín took his time, sighing, leaning back in his chair. He never had enough of staring at Andrés; he was regal, fascinating, mesmerizing. Dangerous. 

"Powerful," he said finally. 

Andrés smiled at him. 

"Beautiful."

He smiled back and turned his attention to the notebook once again, trying to focus.

"Martín..."

With Andrés, pain could be born out of nothing, out of a quiet, serene evening. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : ))))))))


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD DAY Y'ALL
> 
> thanks for the absolute riot in the comments section yesterday 🔥
> 
> now
> 
> Slap on your seatbelts Y VAMOS

_October 2014, Tuscany_

For Andrés, emotions were like languages and one of his greatest skills was the ability to become mute and deaf.

This time, he found himself slipping up.

The first slip-up was due to Martín's reaction to the initial, direct rejection. Acceptance. Andrés was surprised at how much he had to hurt him to make him feel it at this point.

The second, right after; when he realized Martín thought himself unloved by him. He let out a hopeless, breathless laugh at that. Incredible.

The third? Caused by Martín's bravery; his defiance and his warm hands against Andrés' face and neck. There were many ways to be brave and Martín was all of them. Andrés couldn't help but melt.

The fourth was, obviously, the kiss. He stood still, feeling Martín's lips against his own for the first time, so warm, soft and tender. He forced himself to keep his eyes closed and not move an inch.

But then, Martín leaned in again. And again. Making those little breathless sounds. _Provocative_. When he leaned in for the third time, Andrés opened his eyes, saw his face and that was it.

He's lost control only for a short moment, but it was enough to push Martín against the wall, craddle his face and kiss him, once, twice, diving in, relishing the way his hot mouth opened up for Andrés' tongue, how he moaned for him, feverish, _desperate_.

Andrés forced himself to stop. He opened his eyes and Martín was crying; that was to be expected. Right there against his lips, he told Martín he couldn't love him.

The fifth and final slip-up was the stinging in his eyes, but Andrés was sure Martín couldn't have noticed that anyway, because his own eyes were way too tearful for that.

In the end, he had won. He walked away.

  
The dinner with Tatiana didn't do much to tear his thoughts away from Martín. He kept thinking about his mouth, the sounds he'd made, the way he cried.

When they ate and drank some wine, Andrés excused himself, saying he needed air, he needed to be left alone for the night, he needed to go.

He walked around the city for hours.

  
At dusk, he returned to the monastery. It was eerily quiet as he walked through the corridors. Finally, he reached the chapel - it was empty. Books, plans and papers were scattered all over the floor, as well as pieces of glass. He frowned and took the direction to Martín's room.

Empty and messy, just like the chapel. Andrés took note of two empty wine bottles and he winced. Then, he noticed an open suitcase on the floor, halfway filled with clothes.

Finally, he went to his own bedroom and that's where he found Martín when he opened the door. He really did not expect him to still be there, in the monastery, and in Andrés' room, no less. Martín was sitting on his bed, leaning forward, his eyes red-rimmed and his hair dishelved. Worst of all, he was holding a gun, which Andrés decided not to mention.

Instead, he went with cold anger.

"What are you still doing here? I told you to go," he drawled and Martín looked up. He took the safety off with a small click and, to Andrés' horror, he rubbed at his temple with the barrel of the gun, closing his eyes for a moment.

He smiled.

"You want me to go?" he asked Andrés, opening his eyes, moving the gun downwards and tucking it under his chin, pointed upwards.

"Martín..."

"Stay."

"You don't understand," he groaned.

"NO," Martín snapped suddenly, jumping to his feet, the hand holding the gun shaking violently. "It's YOU who doesn't understand. _You don't get to leave me_."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Andrés frowned, staring at him. 

"I'm talking about the fact," Martín began slowly and his voice was shaking too - always, always so emotional. "That after everything, after more than ten years, you are not going to walk away like that."

Andrés breathed through his nose, taking a small step forward. 

"I don't know why are you doing this to me," Martín carried on and he must have been so tired, because his voice was already breaking and he was choking on sobs. "I never knew. But, see, you get to-... you get to do whatever you want and you get to fuck whoever you want, and you get to hurt me if that's your wish, and you get to use me if you like, and you get to get married _four fucking times_ with me as your best man, and you get to break my heart as many times as you want... But you DON'T. GET TO. _LEAVE ME_."

He looked an absolute mess. There was so much emotion in his eyes that Andrés found himself unable to decipher it. Instead, he reached for Martín's hand, for the gun, but Martín was holding onto it, not intent on letting go. 

"Martín..." he said and was surprised at how broken his own voice sounded. Almost desperate. "Martín, give it back, you don't understand..." 

" _OF COURSE I DON'T_!" Martín yelled and by that point, he was crying openly. "I don't understand that bullshit speech you gave yesterday, I don't understand WHY you would even START kissing me back if you didn't want to, I don't understand whatever the FUCK have I done to Sergio to make him hate me and want to get rid of me, I don't understand what the fuck are you doing, but if you're doing it just to be cruel, if I'm so worthless to you that you're hurting me for the sake of hurting me, then _excuse me while I KINDLY FUCK OFF TO THE OTHER SIDE!_ "

He was shaking so badly that Andrés was afraid he would pull the trigger by accident. He put all of his force into wrenching his hands away from his neck. The one holding the gun, he grabbed by the wrist and pointed to the floor. The other one, he brought up in front of Martín's face.

"Look," he hissed. "Here's your fucking answer."

"... My watch? What kind of a fucking answer is that?!"

Andrés was so frustrated he wanted to slam his head against the nearest wall.

" _Time_ , you idiot, I'm talking about time!" he snapped. "I don't have time-... I _wasted_ it and now it's too late, because I'm going to be dead in three years and I DON'T WANT YOU THERE TO SEE IT!"

There was a silence after that, broken only by his own ragged breathing. Then, Martín snatched his hands away and took a step back, staring at him.

And then he burst out laughing.

The sound sent shivers down Andrés' spine and he watched as Martín bowed down, shaking with laughter, before straightening back up, throwing his head back, his hands, one still holding the cocked gun, wandering up to his temples. He started pacing the room, still laughing.

Andrés has never seen a mental breakdown like that up close.

If it weren't such a shock to his system, he would have thought that Martín was beautiful like that; completely insane.

Martín whipped around to face him. 

"Are you KIDDING me?! THAT is your reason?!" he howled. 

"You're not-..." 

"I'm not what? Shocked?! _Oh no, you're dying_ _!_ " Martín feigned a gasp and laughed again. "YOU OVERDRAMATIC FUCK, you really think I don't know that?!" 

Andrés stared.

"What."

Martín accosted him, grabbing the front of his jacket and pushing him against the wall. 

"You think I didn't see your hands shake, eh? You think I didn't find the syringes? You think," he cackled, shaking his head, mouth open in a wild grin. "I haven't been calling your doctor _every single month_ for the past year?" 

Andrés tried to push back. 

"To watch me die, is that what you want?" he spat, cold and angry, scared, incredulous. 

" _Yes,_ " Martín hissed, leaning in. His eyes seemed brighter than ever before, with fire burning behind them. "I want to watch you die, I want to watch you live, I want to be there with you every _fucking_ second of the way. Don't you understand? It's not about how much time do we have, it's about _what_ we have. Three years? Two? Six? I don't care."

He's succesfully rendered Andrés speechless. 

  
"I don't care whether you love me or not. I love you, and that's enough, it always have been," Martín rambled on, all fury and heat. He pressed his lips to Andrés' ear, his voice a feverish whisper. "I can be whatever you want me to be, I can be your pet, your toy, your friend, your best fucking man, whatever. _Whatever_."

Andrés has never been afraid of anyone. Martín was making him terrified. He leaned in, their cheeks pressed against each other.

"Why?" he managed.

Martín let out a breathless chuckle.

"Because, _mi cariño_ , _mi amor_ , I have made all the calculations. I've given numeric value to every argument. I've turned it into a fucking quadratic equation. And of course, the outcome was always negative. But, here's the thing: you are the discriminant, the fucking delta. And it can never be negative."

Andrés turned his head to the side, pulling away a little to look at him.

"Martín," he said, feeling a histerical laugh bubble up in his chest. "You know I don't speak that."

Martín grinned and this time, it was soft, not as dangerous anymore. He stroked Andrés' cheek with his thumb.

"It means," he said. "That it doesn't matter. Because it's you."

They were both breathing heavily and Andrés slipped his arms around the other man, who slumped into his embrace, hands falling to the sides.

"Listen," Andrés murmured into his hair, closing his eyes. "Listen now. You're going to go clean up your mess. The chapel, your room. Then, you're going to drink a glass of water. You're going to eat something. Take a shower, dress nicely. Put the fucking gun away or so help me."

They both chuckled.

"I need to freshen up. And I'm going out for a few hours," he added, rubbing circles into Martín's back. "And then, I'm coming back to you. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

  
Five slip-ups. Gabriela had cried, brokenhearted even though she was the one delivering the blow. Lucía was screaming and crying, throwing things, even. Countless women have slapped him over the years. Anne-Marie had to be held back by three guards because she wanted to annihilate him in the courtroom. Bianca, ever the level-headed one, told him he was a heartless monster.

Tatiana laughed, leaning against the fence of Ponte Vecchio.

"You have promised me three years on our wedding day and you have given me _a month_! You're simply insupportable, Andrés."

She tilted her head to look at him.

"What happened?"

"Martín did."

Tatiana opened her mouth in a small " _oh_ ", her eyes widening.

"Really?"

He nodded and she took a step back, giving him a soft smile.

"Well... If you ever need a swift hand, let me know. I really liked our adevntures," she said and he smiled right back at her.

"Or maybe we could play together a little, the three of us," she winked at him. "My piano, his guitar and your voice, is what I mean, of course."

"Sure," Andrés laughed, shaking his head.

"Don't be a stranger."

  
He came back to the monastery in the evening, when the air was crispy and the sun was setting. Just like that morning, he walked through the quiet corridors. He went straight to Martín's room. The door was half open and he pushed it lightly.

Martín was sitting on his bed, reading. He was dressed in his black jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. On his wrist, as usual, was the watch Andrés gifted him.

He stood in the doorway and Martín looked up at him. His gaze was calm, soft and open.

Andrés strode through the room in three steps and crashed into him. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo ummm this is nsfw

  
_October 2014, Tuscany_

  
Some people said that there was either fucking or making love. The first meant something animalistic, wild, connected to sexual desire and only that. The second, of course, required love and was often imagined as something softer, something tender. Sentimental.

With Andrés, it was everything, all at once.

Martín has had many lovers, always seeking company whenever Andrés wasn't around. Oftentimes, he had to guide them, show them what he wanted, sometimes even snap at them to do it harder because he needed to be bruised.

Andrés didn't need to be told.

Once he got his hands on Martín, he was doing everything just right; he knew when to kiss his neck and when to bite it, he knew that his grip had to be firm enough to hurt, he knew when to pull on Martín's hair and when to run his hands up and down his sides, soothing, making him shiver all over. He went slow, only to speed up moments later, teasing Martín with feather-light kisses to his chest and then suddenly putting his whole weight on him, shoving his tongue into his mouth, licking at his lips.

"Jesus, _Andrés_..." Martín arched his back, trying to grind against him. They've been hard around each other before, they've shared the bed a few times after all, but they both politely ignored it then and Martín never let his thoughts wander there. 

"Don't call for another man while I'm all over you," Andrés breathed against his lips, hot and real. A fantasy that Martín never even dared to dream. "How many have you had?"

His mind was too hazy to come up with an answer; Andrés was shirtless, lying on top of him, covered in sweat, one of his hands pinning Martín's wrists above his head. He was unable to think.

Andrés' other hand grabbed at Martín's hair and pulled, making him gasp quietly. 

"I'm asking _how many have you had._ "

He sighed, closing his eyes.

"I don't know. A lot," he murmured and Andrés let go of his hair, sliding his hand down Martín's neck, chest, stomach and into his boxers, wrapping it around his dick. Martín opened his mouth in a silent cry, arching off the bed again.

"Did you ever think about me, hm?" Andrés asked, his tone seemingly innocent, but there was something dark behind it. "When you let these men fuck you?" 

"No," he managed and the fist around his cock tightened, making it almost painful. He groaned. "No, because that would be... _sacrilegious_."

Andrés growled and leaned down to bite at his lips and lick into his mouth.

"You're obscene," he whispered into the kiss. "Now, show me that skill you always brag about."

He sat up, unzipping his suit pants and pulling out his own dick. Martín didn't need to be told twice - he crawled closer and began worshipping it as best as he could, with licks and open-mouthed kisses. He swallowed it down, then, and Andrés actually moaned when he moved his head up and down.

After a few minutes, Andrés pulled him off of his dick by the hair. Martín loved the brutal gesture so much he felt like laughing and crying at the same time.

"Were you like that with your women as well?" 

"No, Martín, I'm a perfect gentleman. Now, I want to fuck you properly," he said, leaning back to rest against the wall, fixing him with a look, an epitome of dominance. "Show me."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Martín had been worried that Andrés'... lack of experience in the art of homosexual sex would be a problem. Well, apparently it wasn't. Andrés was not asking. He was giving orders.

Martín jumped to his drawers and pulled out a bottle of lubricant - an expensive one, of course, Martín may have been a slutty bastard, but he had standards.

He thought he would come just by having Andrés watch him like a hawk as he prepared himself. He managed not to. A miracle.

His legs were shaking as he climbed into Andrés' lap, feeling open, vulnerable, small. Andrés' hands were burning his hips and he slowly lowered himself onto his cock, throwing his head back, eyes wide open, unable to make a sound.

" _Fuck_ ," he heard the other man groan and he grabbed the back of his neck for leverage, rolling his hips, grinding against him. The angle was great and he whined because finally, _finally_.

He went slow at first but quickly picked up the pace, Andrés meeting him with his thrusts, his grip bruising his thighs, hips, lower back. They pressed their foreheads together, panting into each other's mouth.

"Yes, like that, _yes_ ," Andrés breathed and Martín shivered. He knew he was good at this, having had plenty of practise, but hearing praise from Andrés was a whole another level.

Soon, he was pushed onto his back, Andrés taking complete control as Martín whined and writhed below him, clawing at his back, trying to press himself closer, always closer. He was overwhelmed by pleasure, by the heat of their bodies, by the sounds Andrés was making, by the smell of his cologne, by the salty taste of his skin. All Andrés had to do was reach between them and squeeze his cock once, and Martín was coming, his voice breaking on Andrés' name, and then he was shaking, sobbing.

"Martín-"

"Fuck me through it," he babbled, desperate, holding onto Andrés for dear life. "Fuck me through it..."

Andrés did, snapping his hips two, three, five times more until he stilled, letting out a loud groan, spilling inside.

Martín was still crying, coming down from the high, shaking like a leaf and Andrés sat back, pulled him up and into his lap. Martín wrapped his arms and legs around him, his breathing slowly evening out even if he sniffled still. Andrés held him closely, steadily.

"You're literally like a baby koala right now, _niño_ ," he said quietly and Martín laughed through his tears.

  
"I want to do the Mint, first," Andrés said. Martín's lost count of the number of times they've fucked over the night and in the morning. Finally, they disentangled themselves from each other, took a shower, changed the sheets. Still, they went back to bed. Martín was strumming on his ukulele (since he broke his guitar) and Andrés was sketching.

Martín straightened up, lips pressed into a thin line, ready to fight. Andrés must have noticed how he got his hackles up because he put down his sketchbook and sat up as well, putting his hand on Martín's knee.

"Easy," he said and Martín snorted, shaking his head. Andrés smiled fondly.

"Sergio's plan is almost perfect. Besides, it's a requiem to his father. How romantic is that?" he grinned and Martín's lips twitched as he fought off a smile. "I want to go to Sergio as soon as possible. Speed up the preparations."

Martín looked away, frowning slightly.

"And what am I supposed to do, huh?" he muttered. Strong hands caught him by the shoulders and pushed down onto the mattress, Andrés pining him with his weight.

"You can be really dumb at times, you know that? I'm not going on a heist without you."

Martín raised his eyebrows. He wasn't sure about Sergio's willingness to let him participate, but he didn't want to kill Andrés' enthusiasm. Not when he was smiling like that.

Not when he leaned down to kiss him.

  
_December 2014, Belgrad_

  
Martín was shivering as they stood in front of a tenement house.

"Told you to bring a fur coat instead of that dreadful leather one," Andrés shrugged, glancing at him.

"Screw you," Martín said. Truth was, he was a little nervous to see Sergio. He felt like there were things left unsaid between them.

_Mi hermano tiene razón y tenemos que separarnos._

He twitched when Andrés reached for his hands, cupping them in his own and bringing to his mouth to blow some warm air onto them, the gesture so intimate and caring that Martín forgot everything about his surroundings.

"Let's fuck with him a little, hm?" Andrés muttered, smirking.

  
"We're in," they've said in unison, standing before Sergio who stared at them, frowning. He was in the middle of work, it was clear - his hair was even messier than usual and his shirt wasn't perfectly pressed. A sign of chaos.

"What-... Andrés, why are you-... What do you mean, _we_?" he stammered and Martín scowled at him.

"Well," Andrés drawled. "As you know, I've decided to give your plan a chance. But you see, between three great players, it's a game of compromises."

"Can you talk clearly for five seconds, please?" Sergio groaned.

"See, Martín wants to melt gold and he wants to do it with me, but since the plan is off the table for now, what can I offer instead? A different heist, but with me nevertheless. You, on the other hand, you want me to work with you and I'm willing to do that. Your part of the compromise is to accept Martín into the team," Andrés explained, gesturing with his hands. Martín watched as different emotions crossed Sergio's face until it settled on indignation.

"Wait," he snapped. "How are you compromising in this?"

"I'm not," Andrés grinned.

"Look," Martín chimed in before Sergio could lash out at his brother and the man turned to him, his eyes distrustful. Martín really felt like throwing hands but he smiled instead. "You know my skill. As for my... ah, colorful personality, I can assure you, even if I don't care for printing money, I'm not going to disobey your brother."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrés smile at that. Sergio narrowed his eyes at him.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked slowly.

"I've slept with him," Andrés stated before Martín could open his mouth.

Sergio scoffed, shaking his head.

Martín raised an eyebrow.

Andrés tilted his head slightly.

The smirk slowly fell from Sergio's face as he stared at them.

"No," he said simply.

"Oh, yes," Andrés grinned. Ostentatiously, he pulled Martín closer to his side, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Sergio jumped to his feet, pointing a finger in Andrés' face.

"You-... We need to talk. _Alone_ ," he barked, tuning his gaze to Martín. "You. _Out_."

Martín saw white, but he swallowed hard around his anger and took a step closer to Sergio. He felt Andrés grab his wrist, squeezing tightly.

" _Fine_ ," he spat in Sergio's face. "But if you try to take him away from me, I'm going to murder you."

He wrenched his arm free, turned on his heel and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door as Andrés called after him. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehh honestly this chapter is just a love letter to Martín

_December 2014, Belgrad_

"Happy?" Andrés turned to Sergio, raising his eyebrows and spreading his arms out.

"Are you?" Sergio growled right back at him. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Andrés? What is this all about?"

"It's simple, so don't overcomplicate it. I want in on the heist and I want Martín by my side," he shrugged. 

Sergio crossed his arms over his chest, fixing him with a stern look. 

" _Why_."

Andrés closed his eyes and groaned, throwing his head back. For a genius, his little brother could be really dense. 

"Because..." he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "Martín is my soulmate."

"Since when?!" Sergio snapped, clearly frustrated with by the way Andrés was talking to him. That wasn't news. 

"Since the beginning, but I refused to see it."

"Please, spare me that _true love_ speech for once! With every single one of your girls, with every wife, it was the same thing, over and over again. She was always _perfect_ , always _the one_. Here's how it goes: you become blind, then you get bored and everything ends with a disaster-... "

"Martín is not like them!" Andrés growled, losing his temper.

"Exactly!" Sergio hissed, stepping closer. "The worst one so far was that Anne-Marie, but he's going to be so much worse! He is _deranged_ , Andrés, he is obsessive, dangerous. He cannot control his emotions."

"His passion was what got me out of prison, if it wasn't for Martín, you wouldn't have helped me," Andrés tilted his chin up, satisfied with the way hurt flashed across Sergio's features. "He may be unpredictable, but he will always follow me, he's been following me like a dog for almost thirteen years and he's never left my side, unlike _you_."

Sergio was shaking with anger and frustration at this point, the two of them standing nose to nose. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but determined, barely more than a whisper, but spitting out words with the speed of a machine gun.

"And that's the only reason you think you love him and the only reason all of this is happening right now. There is no such thing as soulmates; Martín was nothing but a pawn for you for years, but he's been in love with you the entire time. Logically, he shouldn't have been, not after every thing - and I'm sure I don't know the half of it - but you see, there's no logic when it comes to him. He's been in love with you, because-... because he's a masochist, and he hates himself, and you give him both the validation that he needs and the pain that he thinks he deserves. And you-... you were fine being adored and you began crossing the lines to see exactly how much you could get from him without giving back, you tied him to yourself and now, instead of taking the chance to finally break that sick bond of yours, you're crossing the final line? Telling me about soulmates? He is not your soulmate and you know it very well, he is just someone that you _know_ won't ever leave you, even when you're on your death bed. You're being cruel, Andrés. Cynical. And Martín is a broken, uncontrolable man and I will _not_ have him on my team to shoot someone when they say they don't like your shoes."

He was breathing hard through his nose, staring at Andrés who stared right back, gritting his teeth.

"You got... some of it right," he said. "But you've worked with him. You see how utterly _brilliant_ he is. He solves equations in his head like it's nothing, he knows every constant and every single theorem, he can construct anything, he's meticulous, innovative, creative-... When he broke me out, he knew we needed something fast and quiet to escape, so he brought in a fucking bicycle, Sergio! A _bicycle_ to get out of prison!"

Sergio took a step back, glancing off to the side.

"What if the printing press overheats and breaks down, huh? Who's going to fix it? A hostage? What if they try to sabotage us? Martín will repair it in five fucking minutes. Don't tell me he will murder someone over a rude comment, that's me, not him. Him? He took a shot at a prison guard. Made the decision in less than a second, shot him in the leg, perfect aim because he's an artist, just like me, he has eye to hand coordination."

He could see Sergio was considering his words. He sighed deeply, running a hand down his face.

"And if," he breathed finally, closing his eyes. "If he becomes a threat, or a liability, I promise you I will neutralize him myself."

"Sounds like putting a mad dog to sleep."

"Like any responsible owner would," Andrés tilted his head, suddenly feeling old and weary. Sergio groaned and sat back down at his desk.

" _Fine_. But the final decision whether he enters the Mint or not is mine to make," he said and Andrés smiled. 

"Of course," he said, knowing full well that him going in and Martín staying out was not a possibility at this point. "I'll go get him before he freezes in that stupid coat of his."

"How are you going to find him now?" Sergio sighed deeply. "The city's population is over one million. That's bigger than Florence or Palermo." 

"I know exactly where to find him."

"In a bar?" 

"Oh, Sergio," he clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "You must truly be exhausted to be making such comments. But I'm sure you'll get to know Martín better and then, careful, because you may end up loving him."

The museum was small, almost cozy, filled with models of Nikola Tesla's inventions, documents and notes. He found Martín in front of the urn containing the ashes of the great engineer. He walked over to him and they stayed silent for a minute or so, only staring at the urn. 

"Tell me," Andrés prompted, then, softly. 

Storms and fires, passion and cruelty aside, that was what their relationship was about. That's what their friendship was built on. It was about the beauty of the world around them. _Tell me about lightning bolts_ , Andrés would say, _tell me about pneumatics and chacarera, about Maxwell and Watt, tell me how to make yerba mate, teach me how to dance tango, show me your hands, let me touch your fingertips, calloused from the strings of your guitar, play_ Hurt _and then explain quietly why you like Johnny Cash._

_Tell me about oenology_ , Martín would say, _how do I taste wine properly. Tell me about Giotto and Caravaggio, how well you know the meanings of flowers, what's the symbolism behind Oscar Wilde's words. Tell me about opera and theater, about cinematography. Show me your hands, smudged by ink, explain to me how much water to use while making an ink wash, why is it your favourite._

"Tell me," he said and Martín did. They walked around the museum and he spoke of science and technology, of patents and _ese hijo de puta_ , Thomas Edison. Andrés was smiling and he was in love, consciously, completely.

The place was about to close so they walked back to Sergio's flat. They found the man alseep in his chair, so Andrés pressed a finger to his lips and draped a blanket over him. They looked around the place, it was considerably smaller than their usual spots, but it had a spare room there, with a mattress on the floor and books and boxes scattered all over. Andrés closed the door quietly and turned to Martín, who had sadness painted unashamedly all over his face. Andrés closed the distance between them to kiss it all away.

"You're coming with us, _cariño_ , don't you worry," he said, smiling, holding Martín's face in his hands.

The other man frowned up at him.

"You know, this doesn't feel real to me, " he muttered quietly, almost shyly. Andrés huffed, shaking his head, and then leaned in more, his hand sliding to Martín's chin to hold it firmly, fingers digging into skin. Just to cause enough pain, to make Martín look at him properly. 

"How about now?" he demanded.

"Better," Martín grinned.

_September 2015, Toledo_

The country estate was nice; a good enough place to plan a heist. Sergio warmed up to Martín, even if he was hesitant to admit it. Martín was making him laugh same as Andrés, if not more, sometimes making nerdy jokes and prompting Sergio to snort like a highschooler.

He would get flustered, too, that poor brother of Andrés', whenever they got too handsy with one another. Andrés couldn't help it - Martín, more and more convinced of the reciprocation of his feelings, fell into Andrés' space naturally. Not all the time; they both needed some distance. But whenever one of them reached, the other was there.

They were seated outside, the three of them, stretched out on the grass with documents, plans and sketches, each of them lost in his own thoughts. Andrés looked up and saw Martín biting the end of his tongue, leafing through a book in search for some information. He nudged him lightly with his foot and it was enough for Martín to move and lie down with his head in Andrés' lap, without as much as looking up from what he was doing. Andrés smiled, slipping his hand into the other man's hair.

"Look, Sergio, isn't he just _adorable_?" he mused, glancing up at his brother. Not getting any reaction from him, he tapped Martín on the shoulder. Martín closed the book and grinned.

"Sergio, my dear, don't be jealous."

"I'm not-..." he began, but Martín was already crawling to him. "Martín, _no_."

He ignored him and wrapped his hands around his neck, practically sitting in his lap. Sergio leaned back, trying to get away.

"Come on, I'll give you a kiss, I know you need affection, too!"

Andrés laughed, watching as Sergio was trying to pull away with just as much determination as Martín was trying to press kisses to his neck.

_January 2016, Toledo_

"Alright, final decision," Sergio stated, leaning over his folders that they've been rereading thousands of times now. "The Dragic cousins, perfect soldiers. Ramos... with his son. Yes?"

He looked up at them. Andrés and Martín both nodded.

"As long as he's going to be civil," Andrés added.

"Good. Next, the computer specialist, Cortés."

"Too young," Martín said immediately.

"Maybe, but his record speaks for itself and the Interpol is after him, he doesn't have as much to lose as it may seem."

"Ugh. Fine, _professor_."

"Oliveira?"

There was a silence.

"If you really want to tap that," Andrés shrugged. Sergio let the comment slide.

"Ágata Jiménez."

"Now, that one, I can't wait to meet," Martín grinned. "She seems nuts."

Andrés couldn't disagree.

Sergio straightened up, excitement in his eyes as he looked at them.

"Looks like we have our team. Remember. No names..."

They glanced at each other.

"... and no _personal relationships_."

They both grinned. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bitch was literally shaking when she wrote these last few paragraphs, please be merciful
> 
> y'all are amazing with your comments, if anyone wants to give me a prompt or just talk shit, find me as czpla on tumblr dot com
> 
> pls enjoy the ultima cena
> 
> xx

_May 2016, Toledo_

  
They've been fucking up the first rule since day one.

Sergio - _the Professor_ \- told everyone to choose a city name and introduce themselves. Tokio, Nairobi, Denver, Moscú, Río, Oslo, Helsinki.

"Our engineer, with whom Moscú and Nairobi will have to work closely," Sergio motioned towards Martín and he whipped his head around to look at the older Ramos.

"Palermo. We'll see how close we'll get," he said and winked, making Denver choke and Helsinki raise his eyebrows with clear interest. It was a nice start, Palermo decided.

He felt Andrés' hand squeezing his shoulder and looked up to see him standing between their chairs, looking regal, obviously.

"I'm the one who's going to be in command inside the Mint," he declared. "You can call me Berlín."

 _Berlín_.

Martín's lips stretched in a wide smile as they shared a look, remembering snow, jewels and fireworks.

"Wait," Nairobi said. "You two know each other already?"

"Yes," Andrés said and turned to Sergio when he groaned behind their backs. "What? We've known each other for thirteen years, Professor. What next, is Moscú supposed to pretend Denver is not his son? Looking at the kid, I wouldn't be surprised, but that would be just cruel."

"Hey!" Denver yelled as half of them exploded with laughter.

Sergio hid his face in his hands.

  
_June 2016, Toledo_

  
"Do you really need to walk around the kitchen without pants, Tokio? Río's tongue is already out anyway and I'm trying to eat here," Martín rolled his eyes, munching on cereal. 

Tokio stepped closer to him and leaned in, narrowing her eyes. 

"Don't stare at my ass if it bothers you so much," she drawled, the smell of her perfume filling his nostrils. He pulled away immediately. 

"Fuck off, you skank," he snapped and her eyes widened in outrage. 

For the next five minutes, they were screaming at each other, quickly pulling out the worst insults they knew, showing off their creativity in the world of nasty vocabulary. 

Denver came into the kitchen, sleepy and confused, and along with Río he tried to appease Tokio, failing miserably.

"IF I SEE YOU RUINING THIS HEIST BY FUCKING EVERYONE IN THIS HOUSE, YOU BITCH, THEN I SWEAR-" 

" _Palermo_."

Andrés' voice made him shut up in a second. He was still reeling, but Berlín stepped closer, looking stern even in his riddiculous robe, and put a hand on the nape of his neck to push him back into the chair. 

"Tokio," he said, his voice cold as ice. "You really should stop annoying Palermo like that. I'm guessing you remind him of my third wife. They didn't get along."

Tokio, Río and Denver all stared.

  
_August 2006, Toledo_

  
Martín really liked Helsinki. He was a good man; big and strong, too, and insanely attracted to him. Martín liked the attention, even though he rarely had chance to get horny nowadays - him and Andrés were sneaking into each other's rooms half of the time and doing a way better job of keeping quiet than Tokio and Río. Admittedly, Andrés' tie often came in handy to muffle Martín's moans. 

Still, as they sat at the dinner table outside of the house, he entertained a conversation with Helsinki. He was being a little bit flirty, maybe, but it was Helsinki who was looking for excuses to touch him.

"Nice watch," he said, reaching to grab Martín's wrist. Before he could touch it, though, Andrés leaned over and stabbed the table between the two of them with a chef's knife.

They both froze and then slowly raised their eyes to look at Berlín, who gave them a charming smile.

"I'm sorry," he drawled, nodding towards the roast meat sitting on a board before them. "I was about to cut myself a piece, but my hand slipped." 

Martín breathed hard through his nose, not breaking eye contact as he slid his hand over Andrés', closing his fingers tightly around his wrist. In one swift movement, he wrenched the knife out of the table. 

"Berlín," they heard Sergio's warning tone. 

He let go and Andrés cut out a piece of roast meat for himself before sitting back down. Martín glanced at Helsinki and gave him an apologetic half smile.

"It's fine," Helsinki said, still blinking in mild surprise. "I understand."

  
_October 2016, Toledo_

  
That last night, they weren't scared. They were excited. After sex, they couldn't sleep, so Andrés pulled out his henna and they ended up like this: Martín stretched out on the bed, arms folded under his head, Andrés sitting on his thighs and drawing on his back. Every time it tickled Martín too much and he twitched, Andrés would lean down to press kisses to the back of his neck. 

"Mm, what are you painting?" Martín asked. 

"A pretty little panorama of Berlín," Andrés said. "So that even when we're in there, you remember you are mine."

  
_October 2016, the Royal Mint of Spain_

  
Andrés' calm presence was saving his ass during the heist. He stayed stoic and he made sure to fulfill basic human needs, his own as well as Martín's. 

"Palermo, a nap."

"Palermo, eat an apple."

"Palermo, come with me for a second." 

They were very good at hiding the proper nature of their relationship from the others once in the Mint. Still, they would hide away for moments at a time. _Come with me for a second_ meant _I need to take my meds_. Andrés was letting him in. He was letting Martín be a part of every aspect of his life, including the most vulnerable one - his disease. In a quiet agreement, they would sit together and Martín would be the one to take Andrés' hand gently in his, to give him the shot of Retroxil and then press their foreheads together, kissing him tenderly.

  
Their secret soon went up in flames. 

"What's going on in there?!" Martín yelled, seeing Moscú and Nairobi by the bathroom door.

"Tokio's gone completely nuts!" Nairobi cried. "She's playing the fucking russian roulette with Berlín!"

When they forced the doors, Martín had to be immediately restrained by Denver and Río, because his only thought was to get to Tokio and murder her with his bare hands, tear her apart, beat her to death, watch her blood splatter across the floor. As Nairobi took the gun away from her, he noticed glass on the floor and the blood in his veins went ice cold when he realised what it was - Retroxil.

"You fucking dumb _WHORE_ , you destroyed his meds, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT, what the FUCK is wrong with you, you crazy bitch, _I'M GONNA MAKE YOU SWALLOW THESE GLASS SHREDS, YOU-_ " 

" _Palermo_! Leave her be. Boys, let him go," Berlín barked and Martín felt his eyes fill with tears. When Denver and Río released him, he threw himself at Andrés, completely forgetting about Tokio. He climbed into the man's lap, craddling his face, pressing their foreheads together, sobbing, because-... he was okay after all, he was alive, warm and breathing and Martín was so frightened when he couldn't get to him. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he babbled, not even knowing what he was being sorry for. Andrés shushed him, nuzzling the side of his face and there was an absolute silence around them as Moscú, his eyes wide, stepped behind the chair to cut the ties. Once his hands were free, Andrés wrapped his arms around Martín's waist, Martín hugging his neck, still shaking and breathing heavily. 

Nobody said anything as they left the room. 

"You're a couple," Nairobi stated later, when they were walking through the production hall. 

"My, you're so observant," Martín scoffed. 

"But he's sick. You're going to lose him either way."

"What's it to you?" he snapped, stopping to throw her an angry look.

"Nothing," she said, stopping as well, looking back at him with honesty and openness. "I just think you're brave."

  
When Moscú died, Martín cried his eyes out, his hands full of dirty soil. He had grown to love the man, he was such a warming presence, gruff but with a heart made of gold.

"You're very bright," he once told Martín, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Before he died, Moscú said to Denver: _I love you._ Martín cried out of pain and jealousy.

  
He was waiting in the tunnel, at its very end, and he saw Helsinki, dragging Nairobi with him. He didn't have to ask; they yelled after him as he ran back into the Mint, grabbing the C4, because they had to start with the entrance and end with the exit. 

"Helsinki, this is an order. Soldier, blow up the- _JODER_!" Andrés yelled as Martín threw himself at him, this time not to hold him, but to punch his dumb face. 

"If you want to die," he screamed as they wrestled. "No problem, I'm gonna drag you out and KILL YOU!"

Furious, he managed to grab Andrés by the collar and start dragging him back.

"You fucking _idiot_!" Berlín groaned, trying to wrench himself away. "You're gonna kill us all like that, for fuck's sake..!"

Martín tore out his earpiece.

"HELSINKI! Blow it up in five seconds!" he called, letting go of Andrés' collar to grab his hand instead.

"Run," he said.

They ran, and they howled with laughter as an explosion shook the entire tunnel and it began falling apart around them. Martín never ran so fast, gripping Andrés' hand probably hard enough to break it, losing his breath, dust filling his nostrils, his eyes, his _lungs_ -

Helsinki managed to catch both of their hands and drag them out before the exit collapsed completely. 

Martín fell to his knees, letting go of Andrés, coughing and wheezing. His head was pounding and there was ringing in his ears, but he could hear Andrés' hoarse voice - _This is Soto del Real all over again_ \- and he could hear Sergio crying and he could hear the thumps as their Professor probably started throwing punches at his brother. 

Shakily, he pulled himself up and that's when Sergio knocked into him, wrapping his arms tightly around Martín.

"Thank you," he sobbed. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you_..."

He held back and looked around, still stunned. He saw Andrés, being crushed in a hug by Nairobi, and Andrés caught his eye, gave him a smile.

Martín flipped him off, but he couldn't keep himself from smirking. 

_May 2017, Jerusalem_

  
They both adored the city. It was lively, held multiple cultures in its old walls, it was historic, melancholic, beautiful. Their apartment was carved out in stone, located in the very center, close to monuments and markets filled to the brim with amazing food, spices and wine. 

Still, they missed Europe and were already plotting to go back to their beloved Italy.

"We could go back to the monastery," Andrés said, playing with Martín's hair. He looked beautiful; dressed in white and beige. He wasn't wearing a tie for once and Martín was running his fingers over the explosed collarbones.

He leaned in to kiss his neck.

"Work on the plan?"

"Work on the plan."

Martín grinned into his skin. Andrés' arm wrapped around his waist and he pulled him in so that he rolled over a little, lying on top of the other man. He let his chin rest on Andrés' chest as he stared into his eyes.

  
Sadness had many different shades.

Sometimes, it was purple, like a bruise, like the wet, cobbled streets of Paris at night, like a thunderous sky stretched over Buenos Aires. 

Sometimes, it melted together with love and then, it was _golden_ , like an engagement ring with a yellow diamond, like the ingots buried forty eight meters underneath the Bank of Spain, like a peaceful, quiet sunset in Jerusalem on a lazy, lovely evening.

" _Cariño_ ," Andrés whispered and even after two and a half years, Martín almost sobbed at the endearment. "What if I'm gone before we can go in?"

Death could be many things. It could be quick like a bullet, piercing through a red jumpsuit, cruel and destructive. It could be numbing and suffocating, like a pillow over your face.

Death could also be a loving companion, wrapped around you like a blanket, reminding you in a soft voice to keep breathing, because nothing but Her is ever promised.

"If you die before that," Martín said, Death washing over him like the setting sun, warm and domesticated. "Then I'm going to take you to Palermo."

Andrés hummed, smiling down at him. Martín stroked his cheeks with both hands. 

"I'm going to take you to the Capuchin Catacombs where they haven't buried anybody since Rosalía Lombardo. I'm going to tell the monks, _I'll pay whatever you want_ , or _I'll burn this place down if you refuse me_. And that's where you'll sleep, Andrés. Away from time," he whispered. 

"And then what are you going to do?" Andrés' voice was low, but sweet as honey. 

"I'm going to go through with the heist. Melt down ninety tons of gold. And then..." he reached to stroke his lover's hair. "I'll take these little globules, turn them into dust. And I'll bring it to you. Sprinkle it around your head, so you'll look like your favourite paintings, like a saint of Giotto, like an artwork of Gustav Klimt." 

Andrés pulled him closer and gave him a short, blissful kiss. 

"And then? When I'm asleep and dressed in stolen gold? What are you going to do then, _niño_?"

"And then," he sighed, smiling because of the way Andrés' dark eyes reflected the sun. "I'm going to travel. I'm going to listen to music, old and new, and watch movies, old and new. I'm going to bathe in champagne, drink wine and liqueur, eat delicious food. I'm going to read books, and walk around museums, and learn new songs, and dance, and study. So that... "

"So that?" Andrés pressed his lips to Martín's hand, holding his gaze. 

"So that when I die as well," he grinned. " _I can tell you all about it_." 


End file.
